


Wolf's Choice

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Choices [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Gen, Gore, Minor Character Death, Present Tense, Slytherin Harry Potter, Torture, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 92,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15408702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: AU of GoF. Harry begins his summer with horrific visions that come true much faster than he was expecting. He’ll have to rely on his circle of friends, both his guardians, and all his allies to cope with the results.





	1. Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a long fic that's a sequel to _Other People's Choices_ , so read that one first.

****_Chapter One—Teeth_

Harry knows that he’s dreaming. Well, part of him knows that. There’s no reason for him to think that he’s _really_ running through a forest with a terrified woman fleeing in front of him, looking over her shoulder and stumbling now and then. Overhead, the full moon shines through the trees. Harry can see a lot better in the shadows than he should be able to.

And he’s swinging from tree to tree, too. When Harry turns his head a little to the side, he can see that his arms are slick and darker than they should be.

He swings down into the middle of a clearing at the same moment as the woman stumbles to a stop in front of him. She thought he was the threat, but another one is stalking towards her from the far side of the clearing. Harry’s never seen a wolf that big, and shaggy, and grey, and its yellow eyes are almost insane.

_Fenrir Greyback_ , says a voice in the back of his head that doesn’t feel like his. Harry knows it’s a memory, something Snape told him, but he’s doubly distant from the memory now since he’s caught up in the vision.

He knew he was looking through Voldemort’s eyes. He just didn’t want to think about it before.

The woman backs up from the wolf, but towards the far side of the clearing, not towards him. Harry feels cold amusement floating on the top of his mind like oil on top of soup. He wants to vomit, but he manages to clench his jaw shut. Or maybe it’s just a matter of not setting off alarms so that Voldemort doesn’t sense Harry’s presence in his mind.

Harry _has_ been working on his Occlumency. It just—doesn’t work to prevent these dreams yet.

The wolf crouches, then darts forwards, and the woman loses her nerve and tries to run. The wolf bites her on the ankle, which Harry thinks is a weird choice through the part of him that isn’t sick with shock at seeing blood fly everywhere. But Voldemort knows why, and sure enough, when the woman tries to stand up, she stumbles. The wolf turns back the other way and hamstrings her other foot, too. She still tries to crawl, sobbing so hard at this point that it doesn’t actually make much noise.

“More quickly, Fenrir,” Voldemort’s voice says. It crackles and sounds like someone is speaking through thick, torn meat. _They probably are,_ Harry thinks, and he engages in a struggle to wake up. It doesn’t work. “Infect her flesh with the fear.”

The werewolf bowls forwards again from the other side, and locks his jaws in the woman’s shoulder, then flicks his head up. Her arm tears mostly off. The woman screams hoarsely in a way that Harry is never going to be able to forget, and then she faints. Voldemort makes a clacking sound with his jaws.

“Now.”

Fenrir locks his fangs in the woman’s skin and begins to pull. Harry has to watch as Fenrir skins her alive. Or she might be dead, with all the blood loss and the way her _arm got torn off._ Harry hopes she’s dead.

When Fenrir has bitten off all the skin, he rips off a chunk of dripping muscle, and parades over to Voldemort. Voldemort reaches out and begins to roll it with hands that look as if they’re made of black bone. In a second, he has a lump of meat that looks horribly like blood-smeared clay.

Voldemort molds it into his arm.

Harry watches for only a moment as it becomes part of him, replacing what look like tattered strips of flesh with a brand-new healthy exposed muscle, before he wakes up with a gasp.

“Harry? Are you all right?”

_Fuck._ Every night, Harry tries to be quiet, to the point of casting Silencing Charms around his bed sometimes. And every night—well, every night that Harry spends at Severus’s house—Blaise wakes up sometime after Harry has gone to bed, cancels the charms, and then leaves the door of his room across the corridor open so that he can hear Harry.

“Just nightmares.” Harry’s voice is thick. For a second, he thinks of the way Voldemort sounded when he spoke, and he wants to scream. But screaming doesn’t do any good. He learned _that_ pretty early on. He sits where he is with his fingers clenched around the scar and watches small rivulets of blood cover his hand.

Of course, Blaise never believes him, so his wand sparks to life and he walks through Harry’s door, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

“The Occlumency isn’t working.” Blaise’s voice is low.

“Thank you, Master of the Obvious,” Harry snaps at him, and then winces. That sends another throb of pain through his scar when he does it, one that seems almost satisfied. He _never_ wants to be the sort of person Voldemort is, taking pleasure in other people’s pain.

Blaise watches him for a second, then shakes his head and asks, “I’ll keep your secret if you want me to, but why haven’t you told Professor Snape that the Occlumency isn’t working?”

“I did tell him. That’s why we’re working on it more intensely and in personalized lessons now.”

“But he asked if you had the nightmares every night, and you told him you didn’t. I was _there_ when you told him.”

The blood from Harry’s scar appears to have stopped. He sighs and picks up his wand from the bedside table to cast the Cleaning Charms that get rid of it on his face and hands. “Because I don’t spend every night here. He’d just worry all the time and either get upset enough to send me constant owls while I’m with Sirius or want to come over and give me lessons there. That would upset Sirius.”

“Maybe you _ought_ to let him worry,” Blaise says slowly. “Since he wants to.”

Harry sighs and says nothing. He has to balance his guardians, that’s all. Blaise seems to think he should only be concerned about what Professor Snape thinks, but then, Blaise is living here permanently for the summer and doesn’t see how Sirius reacts when someone cuts into his time with Harry.

“Get some rest,” Blaise says. “Do you want some Dreamless Sleep Potion? Professor Snape gave me some last night and I didn’t take all of it.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’ve tried. These—visions come past the potion, too.”

Blaise reaches out and squeezes his arm, once. Then he turns and goes back to his own room without a word.

Harry does manage to fall asleep and _stay_ asleep the rest of the night, which is a minor miracle, considering everything he has to worry about at the moment. He wakes up again just before dawn and stares out the window at the glimmers of red on the horizon.

He does wish that he could talk to Snape and Sirius and not have them fight. Of course he does.

But he can’t, so he gets up and takes a shower—making especially sure to wash off any blood that would be caught in the corners around his eyes—and goes down to breakfast.

*

Severus Snape is not a fool. Even if he somehow missed the way Harry glares at his plate this morning, he wouldn’t miss the worried glances that Blaise keeps darting at his friend. It’s almost every two minutes. Blaise apparently tries to concentrate on the huge plate of scrambled eggs with ham the house-elves have prepared, but at the two-minute mark, he raises his eyes to find Harry again.

Harry, meanwhile, is telling Severus about the way that he thinks he can apply the serpent magic he’s learning from the Speakers to the war. “Voldemort’s trained a lot more than I have, sure, but the Speakers swear they never trained him, and I believe them. That means that he can only use that one snake he commands against me. I can use a lot of them.”

“You should know that Black has spoken to me on the subject of your having a pet snake.”

Harry blinks. “What? I’m not going to ask for a pet snake. I’m planning to have serpents as allies, sure, but I’ll form them out of magic or make deals with wild ones.”

“I would be happy to purchase a snake for you anyway. You could simply keep it over here during the hours that you spend at Grimmauld Place.”

“I’m _not_ asking for a pet snake. Sir. But I really don’t think that Voldemort would expect this tactic from me. I have to assume that he knows I’m a Parselmouth by now, not like that would have been kept quiet after second year. But he’ll also think I either hate it or I’m going to use it just like he does. Not that I’m going to do something cleverer with it.”

“The fact is,” Severus says, lowering the cup of tea mixed with a Restorative Draught that he’s been drinking, “I offered to get you a pet snake because I think you are too much alone.”

Harry glances at Blaise. Blaise holds up his hands as if to deny that he betrayed anything.

“You are walking paths that few people ever walk, because few have the potential for serpent magic,” Severus continues, and watches the relief wash over Harry’s face. Perhaps he thought Severus would confront him about his nightmares. That will wait until they are alone. “It would be good for you to have someone who could accompany you on those paths and yet provide a perspective other than the Speakers’.”

Harry thinks about it for the rest of breakfast, but only shakes his head at the conclusion. “Sorry, sir. I don’t really want a pet right now. Hedwig is enough. And I have plenty of companionship.” He scoops up a pear from the table and heads towards the study room on the ground floor where the Speakers will come today for a lesson with him.

Severus immediately turns his hard eyes on Blaise. Only to find him gone. The boy is exceptionally good about slipping away when someone’s concentration is distracted.

Severus sighs and returns to his own study. He was up most of the night researching ways in which Occlumency might be applied to counter prophetic visions, hence his need for the Restorative Draught. His task is hindered by the fact that most of those with the Sight would _welcome_ the visions, not want to hold them off, and also that he suspects Harry’s “visions” are of the present, not the future.

He will not yet pry into Harry’s mind or confidences. He wants the boy to come to him out of a sense of trust, not obligation.

But sooner or later, if the situation does not improve, he will interfere because he cannot stand to see Harry suffering.

*

“ _Welcome, Harry. I want you to go through what you have learned in the last fortnight so that we may build on the lesson._ ”

Harry, chewing on his pear, nods. The request is always the same. To their credit, the Speakers _do_ teach him new things, but he has to run through the repertoire every time, which means the lessons get longer and longer.

And the Speakers refuse to speak English, and go with Parseltongue. The only time that doesn’t bother Harry is when they’re completely in serpent form, which means they don’t have the ability to speak human languages. Lyassa, who’s in human or mostly-human form as a slender woman with brilliant green eyes and scales for hair this morning, doesn’t have that excuse.

Harry starts out, once he’s finished his pear, with summoning a snake, but using a Parseltongue spell rather than the one Draco did in second year. This snake is a British adder, who rears up attentively in front of him. Harry then asks him to perform various motions—lying down, slithering over to a table on the far side of the room, curling in a circle—simply to show that his control over a conjured snake is perfect. As the Speakers have told him again and again, it would be very different if he was dealing with a wild one.

Then Harry narrows his eyes a little and kind of calls on his magic and his Occlumency at the same time while hissing out the Parseltongue words for, “ _I see_.” Lyassa, who taught him this last week, was immensely pleased that he already knew Occlumency; she said it would make everything much easier. And Harry has to admit it does, kind of. Who knows if he’d even be able to do this without it?

The room spins like he’s rotating on one foot, and then he settles again, with a snap, so that he’s looking out through the adder’s eyes. It’s always disorienting, how flat and big things look, and how only a thin nictitating membrane protects his gaze instead of eyelids. The adder immediately slithers to the side and looks up at the underside of the table, where Lyassa stuck a piece of parchment before Harry came in. Harry’s goal is to read what it says, something he did last week as well, but this time, he can see with a glance that the message is a lot longer and more complicated.

Harry concentrates, since he can hardly scowl in this form and he can’t even really blink. The message winds its way in letters that range from small to large, which he’s sure Lyassa did on purpose, to make it harder to read. It doesn’t make him like her any more than he already does, either.

When he’s ready, he lets go of the adder’s mind and opens his own eyes to find Lyassa leaning her pointed chin on her fist, her mouth open slightly to show her pointed fangs.

“It says ‘I wish you would come to the country of the Speakers.’”

“ _Right. You grow more impressive each day, Harry._ ” Harry doesn’t smile at the praise; Lyassa shrugs as if she can hardly help that, and goes on briskly. “ _At any rate. You are ready to learn the next important part of serpent magic._ ”

She holds out her hand and gives a wordless croon that Harry hasn’t been able to imitate no matter how hard he tries. The adder races over to her and curls around her wrist. Lyassa touches its head and is quiet for a second.

Harry waits. At first, during these lessons, he was irritated at how flashy the magic _wasn’t_ , but now he understands how important this is. Besides, if it isn’t as flashy as some spells, then Voldemort won’t sense him coming as easily.

Harry rubs his scar for a second, his mind going back to that terrified woman in the clearing. He _has_ to stop Voldemort. Nothing else matters as much.

Lyassa abruptly opens her eyes and says in Parseltongue, “ _Show me the conjuration of what will happen two weeks from now._ ”

The adder slips from her wrist to the floor, and for a second, lies there with most of the front half of its body raised from the ground. Harry blinks, eyes narrowed. He thinks Divination is stupid, although maybe it would be powerful if it was taught by someone other than Trelawney. But he’s prepared to take this seriously if the magic will let him.

The adder begins to melt into patterns. For a second, it arranges itself in the shape of a lightning bolt that’s so like the one on his head that Harry starts. It pauses after it does that. Then it twists into a circle with its tail in its mouth, and pauses again. Then one more time, and it’s forming a mostly-straight line, with its head twisted off to the side.

After that pause, it slithers back to Lyassa, and she strokes its back for a second before banishing it. Then she looks up at Harry. “ _You can learn to divine the future through the runes that the snake creates._ ”

“Right,” Harry says slowly. He reckons those were runes, but he doesn’t know what they mean. “Why did you pause with your eyes closed before that?”

“ _You must concentrate on what you wish to see. The conjuration of runes is powerful, but can only predict one event at a time. And then you must give the serpent a timeframe, in Parseltongue. Otherwise, it might predict a battle or a death that is far in the future and attracts the magic of diviners, not the one you want._ ”

Harry leans back with his arms folded. “I don’t know all those runes—”

“ _A great deal of your education has been neglected._ ”

Harry ignores that. “I know that the first one looked like Sowilo, but the circle didn’t look like anything, and neither did the last one.”

“ _The last one was Tiwaz. The serpent was creating the rune with its head as one branch of the arrow and the foot of the table as the other. But you may not have been able to see that from where you were standing._ ”

Harry grimaces. No, he didn’t see that. “And the circular one? I don’t know a lot of runes that are circular. Mostly, they have to use straight lines, because they used to be cut into stone.”

“ _That was one of the serpent runes. Most of the time, we crate them from shed skins that we strengthen with our magic, so we are used to softer and more flexible forms._ ”

Harry flings himself back into the nearest chair and groans. All of the Speakers are more prone to let him get away with that than Snape is. “Great. So there’s another set of runes that I have to learn?”

“ _Yes. If you wish to learn anything of the way we fashion permanent constructions of magic, rather than fleeting and momentary ones._ ”

Harry shook his head sharply at his own dramatics, and sat up. “All right. Then please start teaching me the serpent runes. And what does the circular one mean? And what did that message mean?”

“ _Conjure another snake. As for that particular rune, it means the same thing an ouroboros does, a cycle without beginning and end. I asked how much you would progress in your learning of serpent magic in the next fortnight. The snake used Sowilo, the lightning bolt that symbolizes you; the ouroboros; and Tiwaz. What do you think it means?_ ”

Harry has to pause for a second to sort through multiple possible meanings of the runes he already knows in his head, but when he does, he feels a little better. “I have to go through some more cycles, but I’ll achieve victory at last?”

Lyassa smiles at him. Harry manages to ignore, because he’s had practice by now, the gleam of the venom along her fangs. “ _Very good for a first attempt, Harry, although a slight reading of emphasis in the wrong place. You must not merely go through the cycle; repeating that cycle is essential to your victory_.”

Harry fixes his gaze on the cobra that he conjures next. It’s not victory over Voldemort, which is what he wants more than anything, but right now, knowing he can conquer this kind of learning is all the motivation he needs.


	2. At Home

“I have something to tell you, Theo. I believe that you shall have a little sibling soon.”

“Congratulations, Father. I didn’t realize your experiments had progressed to the point where you can create life on your own.”

Tarquinius narrows his eyes. He expected a startle out of his son, perhaps questions, although only a few, since he has always punished Theo for too much emotion too openly expressed. Theo goes on eating his peas with a pleasant and open expression.

“Not by such methods. I will court and marry a witch who can give me a proper heir, without weakness, and without the desire of rebelling against me.”

The direct reference to Astrid makes Theo pause, but perhaps only because Tarquinius doesn’t talk about her often. Then Theo shrugs and swallows another mouthful of peas. “Congratulations, then, for a different reason. Will you want me to decorate the manor? Make myself scarce when you bring my stepmother here?”

Tarquinius’s hand clenches down, but beneath the table, out of sight. Theo does not seem wary of being supplanted. Why? Does he think the poison he has introduced into Tarquinius’s blood will kill him before Tarquinius can sire another heir? But that cannot be true. The Joy-Killer takes its long, slow time.

“I will want you to be courteous to her. And welcome your new little brother when he arrives.”

“Of course, Father. Although I have to admit that I might prefer a sister. Spending time around Luna Lovegood—I told you, she’s from Ravenclaw, part of Harry’s study group?—makes me think having one would be interesting.”

Tarquinius retreats into baffled silence, although as always he listens closely when Theo talks about the people he studies with. It might be that he’ll pick up valuable secrets this way, and learn ways to manipulate his son.

But Theo goes to bed with a smile on his face, the way he always has when he comes home for the first day of summer, and Tarquinius is left to gaze blankly at the seat where his treacherous son sat.

_Why is he not more bothered? Why is not tormented by fear?_

*

Theo shuts his bedroom door quietly behind him, and listens to the defenses engage. He added a few runes when he came home for the summer, but honestly, the majority of the protections hiding him here are decades or maybe even centuries old. Nott parents haven’t always been the sanest. These kept them from harming their own children.

_The way Father wants to do to me now._

Theo still smiles a little as he goes over to open the potions book that he duplicated from the Hogwarts library. He did wonder if Father would confront him about the fact that Theo has been poisoning him for years, but now that he’s had more time to think about it, he’s not surprised at what happened. Father likes to _play_ with people. Keeping them on edge and making them wonder when he’s going to take revenge is more his style.

And taking revenge in ways that people never even notice until they’re impossible to stop is more Theo’s.

Theo reads carefully through the index of the potions book—it’s unusual in being one that _has_ an index—and nods when he comes to the description of the effects he wants. He spends the rest of the evening reading about the different potions that can cause them, and decides on the one he’ll brew before he closes his eyes.

He’s not going to have any more little siblings. He’s not going to watch them suffer under Father, and maybe watch _their_ mothers murdered, too. He can keep them safest by never letting them be born.

*

Blaise shudders a little as he watches a great black owl veering back from the wards that Professor Snape has established around the edge of his property. He knows that particular owl carries a message from his mother. He knows she wants him back.

She’ll conceal it with soft words and sad sighs if they ever meet again in person, but Blaise knows she’s furious. Professor Snape didn’t ask her permission before he took Blaise home with him and Harry for the summer, after all.

But if the professor had been foolish enough to do _that_ , Blaise would be dead right now. And since so few British wizards care about Italian laws anyway, and the Headmaster at the school doesn’t care enough to intervene one way or the other…

They got it accomplished.

“Mr. Zabini. I wish to test your Occlumency.”

Blaise nods and stands up as his Head of House walks into the library. This is a nice room, furnished in dark green and with so many books on the shelves that Blaise doubts he could come to the end of them in a hundred years. Blaise spends most of his time here when Harry is at Black’s house.

Professor Snape stands in front of him for a second and scowls at him. Blaise braces himself as best he can, but he still feels only a flicker before Professor Snape sighs. “You were thinking about the black owl that came bearing a letter from your mother, and why no one in Britain has come to investigate your situation.”

“Yes, sir,” Blaise says. He looks away. He doesn’t understand why he isn’t better at Occlumency. He had to keep his thought hidden from his mother for literally _years_. And he has his mother’s Gift that can influence and charm people. He thought he had better control of his mind than this.

“There is something that may help you,” Professor Snape says, gesturing for Blaise to sit down. “You are trying to _suppress_ your emotions.”

“But that’s what I thought you had to do, sir. Harry is always talking about clearing your mind when he’s practicing Occlumency with us.”

“Clarity is not the same as suppression. What you must do, Mr. Zabini, is make those emotions _not matter_. Think of achieving peace and blankness in your mind as your highest goal. Not fooling someone or resisting a Legilimens. Not even survival.”

Blaise studies him skeptically. Asking him not to care about survival is—a lot.

“Try to relax yourself into it, Mr. Zabini. Think of the way that you feel in this house. You are calmer than you were at Hogwarts? You do not need to worry about your mother being able to remove you from here or a Gryffindor playing pranks on you. Close your eyes and pursue that feeling. Hunt it down.”

“And that’s clarity? That’s calm?”

“There are different ways of achieving it. I do not care what path you take to the end result, so long as you achieve Occlumency.”

 _More for Harry’s safety than my own,_ Blaise thinks, but without resentment. After all, his Head of House has demonstrated that he cares about Blaise’s safety by housing him for the summer. Blaise doesn’t need any more displays than that.

He closes his eyes and regulates his breathing. He thinks about a bed of his own to sleep in, with no fear that his mother will come in at night to “talk.” He thinks about Professor Snape around all the time and Harry sometimes, instead of his mother’s boyfriends and needing to understand them if she’s got a new one. He thinks of Harry in his bed across the corridor—

“Something has distressed you. What?”

Blaise looks up at Professor Snape. He doesn’t want to betray the secrets Harry has trusted him with, and he does his best to banish them from the surface of his mind so that Professor Snape can’t get a look. “Um, just thinking about the kind of burdens that Harry has to bear, Professor.”

“Do remember that I can detect lies, Mr. Zabini.”

Blaise flushes. Snape’s tone is bored, which is worse than disappointed. “Sorry, sir. But I do worry about him. And there are things that I think he should be working on differently or sharing with more people. But I don’t want to force him to act the way I think he should, either.”

Snape considers this, then nods. “That is fair. I will, in fact, be talking to Harry myself when he returns here on Wednesday night. He is not progressing in Occlumency the way he should. I wish to find out why.”

 _Those fucking nightmares,_ Blaise thinks, but he keeps his gaze carefully averted.

“You could tell me, and I would never suggest that I had heard it from you.”

“No, thanks.” Blaise shakes his head. “I’ve kept secrets from him before, and it didn’t last very long. I can’t—”

He cuts himself off, because speaking to Professor Snape about it is different than speaking to Harry, but the words echo so loudly in his mind that it’s possible Professor Snape heard them anyway. _I can’t do that to him._

“If you are certain. Then I shall merely find out the secrets and punish you if I find out that you harmed my ward in participating in their concealment.”

“That’s fair, Professor Snape.”

“Close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing,” Professor Snape orders, instead of responding to that. “You should be seeing a faint, red, glowing thread in front of you, at some point. That is the representation of your magic—I conjured a representation of it the other day that told me so—and you can concentrate on that to lead you to thoughts of deeper Occlumency if your ordinary thoughts are not responding as they should.”

*

“Harry, I have something to ask you.”

Harry feels his shoulders tensing as Sirius talks. They’ve been eating dinner in the middle of the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, which _used_ to be downstairs and windowless. Then Sirius tore a huge hole in the wall with a spell, and framed it and put in glass and some kind of enchantment. Now it shows the lake at Hogwarts.

Harry reluctantly turns away from the window. “What is it, Sirius?”

Sirius is toying with his fork. He clears his throat a few times, and then says, “Well, I know that you like having Snape as one of your guardians, so I won’t ask you to change that.”

“Thanks, Sirius,” Harry says, but his shoulders are just getting tighter. He doesn’t want to start yet _another_ conversation about Professor Snape. There isn’t anything Harry can do to change the compromise they have to make it “fairer” for Sirius or Snape, and what they have takes enough work as it is.

“But I want to offer you something, and I don’t want you to tell Snape about it.”

“Fine.”

Sirius blinks as if thrown off-stride, then grins a little. “You know that I can teach you how to be an Animagus? How would you like to learn to become one?”

Harry feels his heart clench. A few months ago, he would have leaped at that. But he knows a lot more now, and he also has a lot more to learn. And he knows that he has to rank magic he learns by how useful it’s going to be against Voldemort.

“I would like to, but I don’t know if I have space in all the other things I’m learning.”

“Oh, come on, Harry! You only have those serpent magic lessons when you’re with Snape, and I _know_ you’ve done all your summer homework already! What else do you have to learn?”

“I’m keeping up Occlumency practice, and practicing the serpent magic even when the Speakers aren’t actually with me, and learning more about runes, and reading books of defensive spells, and studying history so that I can know more about Dark Lords—”

Sirius interrupts him. “But you don’t _have_ to do all that! Why can’t you just relax and let yourself have some fun once in a while?”

“Because that could mean that someone close to me dies and Voldemort wins.”

Sirius shakes his head. “But you _know_ that you’re not going to have to fight Voldemort directly, right? When that time comes, then someone’s going to be right next to you! Maybe Dumbledore, maybe me, maybe me and Remus and all your friends. You don’t have to fight alone!”

Harry doesn’t say anything. It would be too complicated to explain that he _has_ to. He doesn’t want to endanger anyone else. And he’s going to let people help him in the other battles, of course. He accepts that he can’t fight all the Death Eaters and teach people to protect themselves alone. But that’s not the same thing as actually fighting the monster in his nightmares who is building his body out of skinned muscles.

“Harry? You know you’re not alone?”

“I know I’m not alone for most things. But going up against Voldemort himself, I have to be. Don’t you think that’s what the prophecy says?”

“Fuck the prophecy!” Sirius brings his hand down on the table, making all the crockery and Harry jump at the same time. “My Mind-Healer says that one of the worst things I did was feeling like I had to control everything and do it myself. You’re doing the same thing if you go too much by the prophecy.”

Harry hesitates. Maybe that’s true. But he still doesn’t think he can bear to stand aside and let his friends fight Voldemort for him. Or Sirius. Or Snape. Or even someone he doesn’t know.

“Not right now, Sirius. Maybe next summer, when I know more and I don’t feel like I’m scrambling to catch up all the time.”

Sirius sighs and stirs the remaining sauce on his plate around with his fork. “Okay, pup. But just remember that the offer is always open.”

Harry nods and smiles at his godfather, grateful that his refusal isn’t going to change into a huge argument.

Sometimes it seems huge arguments are where he _lives_ nowadays.

*

“If you do not tell me about your nightmares, I cannot _help_ you.”

Severus knows his voice is too tense and lays too many burdens on the shoulders of a boy who is already burdened, but he is aching with frustration. Harry still has his eyes turned away from him. He refused to tell Severus about the dreams that Severus knows he’s having, and now he’s also refusing to look him in the eye and give Severus an easy way of seeing it.

“It’s not your fault that I haven’t mastered Occlumency yet,” Harry whispers. He wraps his arms around himself and paces up and down the corridor outside his room. Severus caught him up as he headed upstairs; he tends to Floo in lately and go straight to the library, studying for hours, instead of greeting Severus and Zabini. “I don’t want you to feel like it is.”

“I certainly do _not_ feel like it is!”

“Well, good.” Harry gives him a somewhat baffled look. “As long as you know that. It’s not your fault, it’s mine.”

“I will not speak in terms of assigning blame,” Severus says. He bends down and takes one of Harry’s shoulders, wincing as he feels how tightly wound Harry is. “Harry. _Listen_ to me. I do not care how many horrific images there are in your dreams. I do not wish to blame you for not walling them out. I wish to _see_ them.”

“I have to handle him alone.”

“I will not permit you to.”

“You can’t stop me. The prophecy says I have to.”

Severus feels his lips pull back into a snarl that would do Black’s Animagus form proud. So _that_ is what this is about. “I can certainly keep you from acting on your own,” he says, and makes his voice cool. “Charm the books in the library to keep themselves closed when you try to read them, for instance. Do what I should have done the moment I realized you were acting like this.”

Harry whirls around to face him, and at least there’s honest outrage burning on his face now, not the cold resignation Severus has come to hate. “What’s that?”

“Insist that you see a Mind-Healer.”

“You can’t do that! Sirius would have to agree!”

“In fact,” Severus drawls, seeking refuge from pain in a hot, hard enjoyment, “the guardianship papers say that _either_ of us can insist that you see a Mind-Healer at least twice. Black’s permission is not required.”

Harry gapes at him. Then he pushes his glasses furiously up his nose and says, “I don’t _want_ to see one. I don’t need to see one! I’m fine.”

“Then the definition of ‘fine’ includes nightmares every night, an obsessive drive to study that does you no good, ignoring your friends and your friends’ owls, and a degree of self-loathing. Truly, I did not know any dictionary covered that.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and leans heavily on his doorframe. “I _have_ to. He’s torturing people and killing them. Or having Greyback torture people and kill them, anyway. How am I supposed to stop him if I don’t take my magic seriously?”

Severus breathes out. _Ah._ Now they are getting somewhere. He reaches out and gently strokes the knotted shoulder until it relaxes, at least a little. He murmurs, “It is not your responsibility to keep him from torturing and killing people.”

“Yes, it is!”

“I want you to forget about that ridiculous prophecy. Keep in mind that everyone else will keep you from facing him by yourself, and yes, that does include me. It includes Mr. Zabini. It includes Weasley and Granger and Nott and Malfoy. It includes Black,” Severus has to grimace as he says that, “and even the werewolf. Defeating Voldemort is not your responsibility alone.”

Harry is breathing noisily, his head bowed. For a moment, Severus thinks it would be better if he could permit himself the release of tears, but he is also selfishly relieved that that does not happen. He would have no idea how to deal with it.

“Now,” Severus continues quietly, “let me help you tonight. I can give you a combination of an Occlumency shield in your mind and a potion that will let you sleep. And tomorrow, we can set about finding a Mind-Healer for you.”

Harry’s eyes snap open. “You were serious about that?”

“I should have started being serious long since.”

“You don’t look like a huge shaggy black dog.”

“Very funny, Mr. Potter,” Severus says in his most sepulchral voice. “Will you permit me to use the Occlumency and the potion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the Mind-Healer?”

“I’ll—think about it, sir.”

For now, that is all Severus can ask for. He tilts Harry’s head gently back and looks into his eyes, sweeping away the conflicting images of fleshless bodies and full moons and blood on the ground and replacing them with one of a calm forest glade. At the same moment, he Summons the most powerful Dreamless Sleep potion he has from the lab and drips a careful three drops on Harry’s tongue.

Harry drops like a log. Severus catches him and carries him to bed, carefully tucking him in because there is no one to see.

And if he lingers, watching Harry’s sleep for a few minutes, there is still no one to see.


	3. Reactionary

“Why did you not wish to tell me of your nightmares?”

“For all the reasons that you already know about.”

From the corner of his eye, Harry can see Professor Snape’s hand tighten on his fork. Well, too bad. Blaise already ate as fast as he could and left the dining room. Harry doesn’t blame him. Things between him and Snape are as tight as a Muggle rubber band.

“Are you going to be honest with the Mind-Healer?” Snape asks then, his voice mild enough. Except Harry is used to watching things like hands where they grip forks.

“I’m going to try,” Harry says. “But I don’t really see what they can do to help me. They can’t make Voldemort not want to come after me. They can’t stop Voldemort and Greyback from killing people. They can’t make me ready to face Voldemort.”

“There are other things in life than training to defeat the Dark Lord.”

“Not until I defeat him, there aren’t.”

Snape goes back to eating his omelet, his expression entirely sour. Harry ignores him. They have maybe an hour until the Mind-Healer arrives, and that means he has an hour for serpent magic lessons with Rizzen.

He likes Rizzen the least of all the Speakers, because he was the first one Harry met, and he acted like Harry should just consent to go with them Because. But he, Lyassa, and Asheren take turns, and it’s his turn today, so Harry reluctantly goes into the big sitting room and shuts the door.

Rizzen is in the form of a huge golden serpent with shining green eyes. But he turns those eyes on Harry and says at once, “ _What troubles you_?”

“Nothing more than all the usual bollocks that goes on. Human things,” Harry adds, when Rizzen still stares at him. “Nothing that you care about as a Speaker. Could we start with conjuring serpents, now? I only have an hour this morning.”

“ _You cannot practice effectively when you radiate pain._ ” Rizzen slithers forwards, and flicks his tongue out as he hisses a word that sounds like and is not like the word for “fire.” Harry has no warning at all before he finds himself lapped in the huge coils, which are glowing as toasty warm as any flames.

Harry’s too stunned to react for a second, and in that second, Rizzen settles them in front of the hearth, looking pleased with himself as he tightens around Harry’s chest and arms. Then Harry begins to writhe in Rizzen’s hold. “You’ve made you point, now let me fucking go! I told you, we only have an hour.”

“ _Such language you use. And I told you, your magic and mind are too disordered._ ” Rizzen stretches so that some of him is flat, but not enough that anything weakens his hold on Harry. “ _This is what we do for our own disordered young ones. Keep them safe and warm until they speak._ ”

Harry closes his eyes and tries to understand if this is going to help, but all that he can feel is gathering, growing panic that he can’t move his arms. He hisses in Parseltongue, because it might make Rizzen listen better, “ _I find this confining._ ”

Rizzen flickers out his tongue as if to taste the scent of his emotions, and then unwinds from Harry’s body. “ _I am sorry. It seems that young Speakers and young humans are different._ ” He pulls back so that he’s on the hearth, and bobs his head. “ _But what I said is still true. You cannot practice serpent magic when you are so disturbed._ ”

“Then what use is it in battle? If I have to be absolutely _calm_ when I’m doing it?”

Rizzen turns to regard him, and although his face is so unexpressive Harry can’t read his emotions that way, he sounds shocked. “ _You thought that this was only battle magic? Of course it is not. It is so that you can also spy on the corrupted Parselmouth, and call for help, and distract your enemies, and perhaps escape if you are captured, and predict the future. Why would only battle magic be useful_?”

“That’s not really what I meant, I suppose.” Harry rubs his hand through his hair. A few days ago, the thought of an hour off would have been wonderful, but now his nerves keep jangling. “I just keep thinking that I have to do everything I can to defeat Voldemort, because I’ll never have peace until I do.”

“ _You cannot dedicate every thought to that. Try to relax. If you are not comfortable when you are bound, what about lying on something warm_?”

“Can you cast that charm on a blanket, too?”

“ _I meant my scales_.”

Harry eyes him suspiciously. “Just tell me that you’re not going to tie me up again.”

“ _I will not. I didn’t understand before that you would panic if you were wrapped up tightly. Is that because you were trapped in a cave once? A small space_?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” It probably comes from the cupboard, but Harry is not going to say that. He walks over and sits down cautiously on a bend of Rizzen’s scales. Rizzen obligingly bends into more of a chair shape.

Harry closes his eyes. Now that he thinks of it, this is _much_ more comfortable, the warm smoothness against his cheek. “If I fall asleep, will you please wake me up in an hour? I don’t want to be late for my appointment with the Mind-Healer.”

“ _I will_.”

Harry sighs and does as best he can to relax his mind and body. It’s not easy. Everything he can feel is clamoring that he shouldn’t do this, that he should be working, because every moment that he’s not studying how to defeat Voldemort is a moment wasted.

On the other hand, he has no doubt that if Voldemort or Greyback came bursting into this room right now, they would still be defeated by Rizzen’s magic.

After all, his eyes slip shut, and although he doesn’t do much more than doze before Rizzen hisses him awake again, at least it’s enough to make him relax before he has to go face his doom, otherwise known as Mind-Healer Jacinth Lyndell.

*

“Thank you for being on time, Harry. Will you please take a seat?”

Harry hesitates a little at the entrance to the room. The Mind-Healer is sitting on one of the broad couches in front of the sitting room’s fire, looking up at him mildly. She has long white hair, which puzzles Harry because she’s not that old, and golden eyes that remind him of Remus’s. But he doesn’t think Professor Snape would let him have a werewolf as his Mind-Healer.

“Shouldn’t you be calling me Mr. Potter?” he asks, as he takes the chair furthest away from her.

“I can certainly do so if you want me to. I thought you might want a less formal footing since we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”

“I suppose you can call me Harry if you want.”

“Thank you, Harry.” Healer Lyndell smiles at him. “Now. I want you to tell me what you think Professor Snape is concerned about.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“I think your perceptions and his might differ.”

Harry pauses, eyeing her, but she doesn’t even as if she’s going to snap or anything. She just waits. Finally, Harry says, “He’s concerned because I’m having lots of nightmares about Voldemort.”

“Oh?” Healer Lyndell doesn’t flinch at the name. “This has something to do with your scar and your fame?”

“Yeah.”

Harry doesn’t say anything for a while after that, but Healer Lyndell just waits. Now and then she smiles at him, as if she’s noticed something about him that she likes. Harry finally gives up and mutters, “And he thinks that I’m working too hard to defeat him. He keeps saying that he’s going to be there when I fight Voldemort.”

“Why not?”

“I have to face him _alone._ I know he would do anything he could, kill anyone he could, just to torment me.”

“And it doesn’t torment you to have to face him alone? To spend so many hours training, studying, and never relaxing, because you think that one day you might miss a piece of knowledge that would save a life?”

“You ought to understand, right? You’re a Healer.”

“I don’t deal with acute injuries in the way that my brothers and sisters in St. Mungo’s usually do, Harry. Sometimes I do try to help someone in crisis, yes, but it’s much rarer. What I do is try to give longer-term care, lessen wounds that are usually years old.”

Harry clenches his fists. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but he also knows that Snape won’t be happy if he doesn’t. Harry is trying to avoid making his guardians unhappy. “All right. Well. I just—if I’m studying and training to defeat him, no, it’s not very happy. But at least I know that no one _else_ is getting hurt.”

“That matters to you very much.”

“ _Yes._ Of course it does.”

“Why, Harry?”

Harry opens his mouth, and then ends up staring at her in disbelief. “How can you say that?”

“Because there are some people it wouldn’t matter to,” Healer Lyndell tells him very gently. “Some people who don’t care about anyone except themselves, or perhaps their family. Some people who would want to help but would be afraid. And some people who would see that they should sometimes let someone else get hurt because they can’t work alone.”

“Professor Snape wants you to persuade me to do that last thing.”

“He mentioned that he thought it would be good if you could be cured of some of your overprotective instincts, yes. But I’m not here to change you, Harry. Professor Snape, like most wizards, has a strange idea of how Mind-Healing works. It’s not about _fixing_ you, as if you were a broken lift. It’s about ensuring that you can live with your wounds.”

“I don’t have any problem with that.”

Healer Lyndell gives him a mild glance. “Really. Then why didn’t you tell Professor Snape about your nightmares right away?”

“They were mine to solve! He doesn’t need to get involved.”

“But someone who only prizes efficiency in war above all else would realize that he’s less efficient when he gets less sleep. So he would have told Professor Snape about them simply so he could rest better and get to a Mind-Healer earlier, and that would make him able to consider the future more carefully. Yes?”

Harry scowls at her.

“You’re not a machine,” Healer Lyndell says again, quietly, this time without a smile. “You’re someone whose wounds aren’t healed right now and who isn’t living with them in a way that works for him. I want to help you get there, to understand your own thoughts and be able to choose what you want to do instead of only reacting to outside threats or suggestions.”

“It just takes _time_ ,” Harry says, and he rubs for a minute at his forehead, even though his scar hasn’t hurt since last night when Professor Snape gave him the Dreamless Sleep Potion. “An hour I spend talking to you is an hour I don’t spend training.”

“And what about eating? Sleeping?”

“I _try._ It just doesn’t work always.”

“And again,” Healer Lyndell says, steepling her fingers so she looks like Snape when he’s going to make a point Harry doesn’t like, “there is a contradiction. You are driving yourself in the direction of breakdown, not becoming a warrior. So, becoming a pure warrior and nothing else isn’t going to work for you. What will?”

“Not having a Mind-Healer.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option right now. In the future, yes, I think it likely you won’t need me. What do you _want_ , Harry? Actually want? Think about that, not just your anger over what Professor Snape did by bringing me here.”

Harry scowls at her again. She doesn’t look impressed. In the end, Harry supposes that he has to press his eyes shut and think about it. Snape would demand nothing less of him.

In the end, he says slowly, “I want people to stay safe. I want this war to end. I don’t really want to kill Voldemort, but if that’s what I have to do, I’ll do it.”

“Those are good wishes,” Healer Lyndell agrees. “But I want to know what _you_ want.”

“I _do_ —”

“For yourself, I should have said. You want those things to happen for other people. For yourself?”

Harry hesitates. It’s something he’s never spoken of to anyone. The Dursleys would have mocked him. He doesn’t think his friends in Gryffindor would have, but they wouldn’t have understood, and they’d probably say stupid things without meaning to. And his friends in Slytherin just—don’t understand in a different way.

“Harry?”

“A home, somewhere,” Harry finally says. He keeps his gaze fixed away from Healer Lyndell, on the floor, fiercely promising himself that if she laughs, he’s going to get up and walk out of the room and never come back no matter _what_ Snape says. “A little house where I can live with people who love me. Who I love. Where my friends are welcome to visit anytime. Where I don’t have to do a balancing act.”

“A balancing act?”

“With Snape and Sirius.” Harry winces at the way he sounds, but it’s true and he said it and he doesn’t think Healer Lyndell would believe him if he tried to take it back. “They care about me, I know, but they’re always arguing with each other and with me if I say something good about one of them and I’m so _tired_. I want to rest.”

Healer Lyndell reaches out and grasps his hand. Harry looks up at her warily. She’s smiling at him, her golden eyes brighter than he knew eyes could get.

“Then that’s the first step,” Healer Lyndell says. “To think about how you can drop the balancing act, and get some rest, and take some steps towards having that home.”

Harry swallows several times, until he can get his breathing under control. This is one of the reasons that he didn’t want to talk to a Mind-Healer, because he knew it would make him more jangled. But Snape didn’t listen to that reason, either.

“But what about when they get upset?”

“Are you talking about Professor Snape and your other guardian?”

Harry nods. “But the rest of them, too. There might be some people who are upset that I’m focusing on things like—having a home instead of fighting Voldemort.”

“You can’t make their feelings your priority, Harry. You can try to be gentle with them if you want to, if you think you need to. But that doesn’t mean you can ignore yourself because they might be upset. I think that you already have a lot of experience ignoring your own feelings so that others won’t get upset, don’t you?”

Harry jerks his hand away from her and shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about them.”

“Which them?”

“My Muggle family. They’re dead now, anyway. I don’t see what they have to do with anything.”

“I think they have a great deal to do with this. But if you don’t want to discuss them right now, then we won’t. We’ll have time to come back to them when you feel ready to speak.”

“How many more appointments did Professor Snape make with you?” Harry asks, his heart abruptly sinking. Somehow he thought this would be only once. He _knew_ in a corner of himself that it never would be, but he managed to ignore that part of himself and order his thinking that says—

“And who’s paying you?” Harry demands. He told Professor Snape that he could use Harry’s money to do things like buy this house and food for Harry, but he’s suddenly afraid that maybe Snape is using his own money to pay for the Mind-Healer.

“Professor Snape gave me the money. Whose vault it came out of originally, I didn’t ask.”

Harry runs his hand through his hair and closes his eyes. Another thing to worry about. Another burden that he has to carry because no one else will.

“Do you think that you can spend your time in the best way by worrying about this?”

“No, but—”

“Well?”

“I don’t think Professor Snape makes very much money. I can’t let him pay you when _I_ can pay you.”

“If this is something you want to speak to him about, then you should, Harry. But you should also keep in mind that it will probably contribute to that balancing act you talked about, instead of ending it. And it doesn’t get you any closer to a rest or a respite from worry. It doesn’t let you have a family who will take care of you, if you make yourself into the parent instead of the child every time.”

Harry winces, because he knows she’s probably right. But his worry about Professor Snape spending his own money is too great, especially because he’s also been worrying that maybe Headmaster Dumbledore isn’t paying him as much since he started taking care of Harry. “I have to do this one thing.”

Healer Lyndell doesn’t say anything. Harry has to look at her, and he finds her slowly nodding. “If you _wish_ to. One of the wounds that I see we shall have to try and make less deep is the tendency to think that your own wishes are of no great importance.”

Harry gives her a strained smile and says, “Are we done?”

“If you wish to be? If you don’t have anything else that you want to talk to me about?”

“Not today.” Harry stands up. “I’ll think about it. What you said. About trying to find the things I want instead of just reacting to everybody.”

“I hope you do,” Healer Lyndell says, and holds out her hand to shake his. “I’ll come an hour later next time, so that you may have more time for the other lessons that Professor Snape says you have.”

Harry shakes her hand with his face feeling stiff and hot, and runs away. He’s got to find out how to repay Professor Snape.


	4. Scars

“I want to know what you paid the Mind-Healer.”

Severus tightens his hand on the rim of the cauldron before he turns to face Harry. He did not anticipate this particular problem, but of course he should have. Harry is glaring at him with brilliant, forthright eyes.

“I am your guardian. The price is not your concern.”

“Yes, it is. I know you don’t earn that much. And Dumbledore is probably trying not to pay you as much, too, right? Because he would be upset that you became my guardian even though he didn’t want you to.”

Severus blinks. He is absolutely sure that no one who knew about that would have told Harry. That makes it a guess as brilliant as his eyes.

“You have already used your money to permit me to purchase this house when you should not have had to. I have private stores of money that Albus does not know about. I never use them at Hogwarts, because I don’t want him to grow suspicious,” Severus adds, because he knows where Harry’s next question will come from. “But I have them, I assure you. The pay for Healer Lyndell comes from them.”

“How did you get them?”

“That is a rude question, Harry.”

“I don’t care.”

Severus steps away from the cauldron. “You will care,” he says. “You will care, because I will not allow you to become rude in your desperation, justified though that desperation might be.”

Harry might not have heard. He doesn’t move; he doesn’t look away from Severus. Severus finally sighs in despair and murmurs, “I sometimes brew potions on the side, potions that I have no ability to brew for the hospital wing at Hogwarts or that Albus would disapprove of. The money came from that.”

Harry goes quiet for a second. Then he asks, “Could you get in trouble for using Hogwarts supplies to brew those potions?”

Severus chuckles in surprise. He wishes Harry would relax and concentrate as much on his healing as on his efforts to defeat Voldemort, but he has to admit that Harry’s mind has stretched and grown in the last year. “I could indeed, assuming that I was using Hogwarts supplies.” He watches as Harry tilts his head to the side, his eyes darting to the cauldron Severus was working on for a minute.

“Oh,” Harry says quietly. “You bring your own cauldron and use your own supplies.”

Severus nods. “It’s never yet been a problem, but it might end up being that way, the more Albus questions me.” He touches the rim of the cauldron again, this time to keep it from trembling as the potion inside begins its complex reaction. “Now. Are you satisfied that I can pay for your Mind-Healer and I’m not going to beggar myself for it?”

“Yes,” Harry says, but he still frowns. “There must be _something_ I can do to repay you, though. I think she’s really going to help.”

Severus feels, for a moment, as if the room is filled with the light of a second sun. “Listen to her,” he says, with a shrug as casual as he can make it, when he feels like this. “Consider what she says to you. Do it critically,” he has to add. He of course met with Healer Lyndell before he had her meet with Harry, and there were some things she said, mostly about Severus himself, that he did not agree with. “But do listen.”

“Okay.” Harry shifts his balance slowly. “Do you think…”

“Yes?”

“That you could teach me how to brew some of those potions that you can’t make for the hospital wing at Hogwarts?”

The sunlight still seems to be here. “You must know that none of these potions are useful in battle,” Severus warns him. “Healing and slow revenge, that is all that most of them are good for.”

“I don’t—I want to learn.”

Severus turns to get out another cauldron, comforted by the fact that the Mind-Healer has already wrought one miracle as far as he’s concerned.

*

“ _Again,_ Greyback.”

Harry writhes in pain as he feels Voldemort’s rage race through him. The scene in his head makes no sense. At least Voldemort and Greyback aren’t hunting people this time, but they are in the middle of another moonlit clearing, casting spells at a huge cauldron.

Greyback stands there, trembling with the exertion of so much magic. Then he casts the spell again. Harry recognizes the incantation, or part of the incantation. It seems to be a Confundus Charm.

Which doesn’t explain why they’re casting the charms on a _cauldron_ , of all things.

For a second, the huge bronze cauldron wobbles back and forth on what seems to be a loose bundle of twigs, and then a blue flame bursts out of it. Voldemort begins to laugh. The sound makes Harry’s chest ache.

“When the time comes, then, you will be ready.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Greyback is panting with his head down, his hands on his knees. Harry might feel sorry for him if he hadn’t seen him slaughter so many people so Voldemort could use parts of their bodies.

“And now to your other task...”

Harry wakes up gasping. For a second, he thinks he’s drowning in the moonlight, and then his senses return. He sits up and pushes his hands through his hair. Blaise is standing in the doorway, staring at him.

“I’m all right,” Harry whispers to him. “Go back to sleep.”

“Not this time,” Blaise says, sounding determined, and walks over to stand in front of Harry. “I know that I probably can’t make your nightmares stop, since I’m not a Potions brewer or a Mind-Healer. But at least we can talk and get your mind off them.”

“Um,” Harry says, and wraps his arms around his knees. He wants to shiver, even though the summer night is so warm that his window is open (behind a wall of shimmering wards, of course). “What did you want to talk about?”

“God, chatting with you is difficult,” Blaise mutters. “All right. You know that my mother has been sending me owls demanding that I come back? Or I think the owls say that, anyway. Professor Snape’s wards turn them all back, so I’ve never been sure.”

Harry winces. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t ask about it before, Blaise.”

“I’m only going to keep talking about it if you don’t use this conversation as an excuse to martyr yourself.”

“I don’t—yes, all right. What about them?”

“Professor Snape thinks that I ought to let one owl through. He’d remove the dangerous curses and compulsions that my mother might have put on the letter, and any potions she might have soaked it in. Then he thinks I should read it through and reply. I’m fourteen now. I can’t hide forever.”

“Hypocrite,” Harry mutters, thinking of the way that Snape keeps telling him almost-fourteen is still a child and he doesn’t need to grow up and face all the things that Harry knows he’s going to have to face.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not you. Professor Snape.”

“It’s reasonable that he should feel differently about you than he does about me. I mean, you’re his ward.”

“But you’re one of his Slytherins! He should want to protect you. He shouldn’t be encouraging you to write back to your mother yet.”

Blaise rolls his eyes a little. “And you think that would work forever? No, I think what he says makes sense. But not until one of her letters has been thoroughly taken apart and made to be just a letter, of course.”

“I’m glad that we could offer you a home here,” Harry tells Blaise softly. “I wish there was more we could do.”

“Like what?”

“Like—make your mother stop using her Gift. Your life would probably be better if she wasn’t always marrying her boyfriends and then murdering them, right?”

“Honestly, I think it would be pretty much the same thing for _me_ ,” Blaise says, after he thinks about for a while. “I mean, I would never be affected that much by them. They’re just annoying. But she watches me all the time. She wants to control my post and my thoughts and what I do with my free time. If she knew that I’d inherited her Gift, she would be going even more mental than she is now.”

“How long do you think you can keep that from her?”

“Until I’m of age. That’s the only thing I need to do. She used to tell me over and over that her Gift came of age when she did. I ought to be powerful enough to protect myself by then, and she can’t make any more legal challenges to claim back custody of me when I’m seventeen, either.”

“Well,” Harry says, and then he can’t think of anything else. “If there’s something _else_ we can do, then let me know. I know Professor Snape would want to help keep you safe, too, so it’s not like I need to ask his permission.”

Blaise gives him a strange, dull smile. “I know that Professor Snape would want to keep me safe because I’m a Slytherin, but mostly because you asked him.”

The strangeness of that response, and the way that Blaise is so certain when he says it, keeps Harry awake long after Blaise goes back to his own bedroom.

*

“What’s wrong, Remus?”

Part of what’s wrong is what’s always wrong, that Remus still can’t decide whether he’s on Albus’s side or not, but he shakes his head and forces a smile for Sirius. “There’s a storm coming in. A heavy one. But I can’t tell yet if it’s going to actually rain, or just grumble and spit lightning the way the last one did.”

And it’s true there’s a storm coming. Remus can sense that much, his skin prickling and itching the way it does when fur grows through. But the full moon is two weeks past or away, depending on how you think about time, so he knows it can’t be that.

He just doesn’t know what _else_ is wrong.

Remus prowls restlessly around the house until Sirius, who’s trying to practice at getting some of his skills with battle spells back, irritably tells him to go outside. It does feel a bit better when Remus is there. At least he has more room to move.

“Remus?”

Remus blinks and turns around. Harry is leaning against the side of the house, staring at him with narrowed eyes. It still hurts, sometimes, to see someone with Lily’s eyes looking at him like that, but it’s not like Remus has done anything to deserve more. He nods at Harry, says, “I didn’t mean to bother you,” and starts to walk away through the wild, tangled garden that Sirius has essentially uncovered. It turns out that the grounds of Grimmauld Place are a lot bigger than even Sirius knew when he was a kid, stretched and accommodated by wizard space.

“No, I mean, it’s okay,” Harry says hesitantly. “If you want to stay with me and don’t mind seeing snakes crawling around.”

Remus turns back, secretly pleased. He’s wanted to see some serpent magic ever since he learned Harry would be getting lessons, but Sirius doesn’t. “Is this where you practice what you learned from the Speakers?”

“Yeah. I used to practice it just at Professor Snape’s house, but Rizzen said I had to do it more often than that, or I wouldn’t be good at it. Prick.”

Remus is startled into laughing, even though Harry looks mortified seconds later at swearing in front of an adult. “You don’t like Rizzen?”

“He thought it would be a good move to try to force me into coming to live with the Speakers. I haven’t forgotten about that.”

Remus shivers a little, more from Harry’s tone than from the heaviness in the air. “Oh. Um. Well, I’d still like to watch you conjure a snake.”

Harry nods, and then speaks in Parseltongue. Remus jumps as an adder falls to the ground. “You did that without using your wand!” he says, delighted.

“Of course. I’m pretty good at that now, and that’s the kind of serpent magic the Speakers are teaching me.” Harry smiles at Remus and turns to the snake, hissing out a request. The snake promptly curves into the air and freezes into an S, the way the serpent on the Slytherin crest does. Then Harry puts the adder through its paces, making it lie down on the ground and twist into a ring and crawl into the grass.

Remus is still watching when the wind shifts. For a second, he thinks that he’s smelling the approaching storm; it’s heavy and almost greasy—

Then his heart shudders in his chest. He _knows_ that scent.

“Harry! Get back inside the house, now!”

Harry looks up, startled, and it’s already too late. Fenrir Greyback bursts out of the tangled woods at the edge of the Black garden and gallops straight at Harry, his mouth open and too full of teeth. He’s making a noise that might be a laugh and might be a snarl.

Remus hits him from the side, but he doesn’t manage to bowl him completely off his feet Greyback struggles past him for a second, claw-like nails scrabbling at the grass, his mouth open and champing—

And Harry screams as Greyback’s claws rake down his face.

The whole world vanishes for Remus in a wash of scarlet. He slams into Greyback again, and this time, he does knock him over. They roll and struggle, Greyback snapping his teeth as if he’s going to fight like a wolf even in human form, Remus trying to get his hands around Greyback’s throat so he can strangle him.

Greyback locks his feet in the grass and arches his back, throwing Remus’s hold off enough that he loses his grip on the bastard’s throat. Then Greyback laughs at him and turns back to Harry as if he’s going to finish him off.

Remus reaches out and tears into Greyback’s flesh, seeking his spine.

He’s never before dared to use his lycanthropic strength like this. It would mean becoming too close to the kind of creature Greyback is, accepting the wolf as a natural part of himself. But this time, he’s desperate to save Harry, and it _works_. Remus’s hand punches straight through skin and muscles into the monster’s back, and for a second, his fingers close around vertebrae. Greyback howls in agony.

He whips around, and Remus loses his grip. Then he snaps one more time and bolts to the edge of the garden, leaping and vanishing into the thickets that line it.

Remus raises some defensive wards as fast as he can, swearing under his breath because those wards weren’t there _already_. Then he turns around and runs back to Harry. Harry is holding his hands over his face, but Remus can see the blood oozing between his fingers.

Remus takes a breath to steady himself. The only consolation here is that Harry isn’t going to become a werewolf. It would take Greyback biting him under the full moon for that. But Remus is an expert on how badly scarred Greyback can make someone anyway. “Let me see, Harry.”

Slowly, Harry lowers his hands.

It’s terrible. At least Harry still has both eyes, but three long scratches cut down the left side of his face, jagged and tearing, swerving close to his eye and then ending a centimeter or so short of his lip. Remus imagines what they’ll look like when they scar over, and winces.

“Why did he do that?” Harry whispers, his voice as dry as autumn. “I would understand why if he bit me and I was a werewolf, but…”

“To make you more untrustworthy in the public’s eyes,” Remus tells him softly. “There are people who would never give a werewolf the time of day, and even when they learn that you’re not one, they’ll still flinch from the reminder that there are people like Greyback in the world. You-Know-Who wants—he wants you not to be able to use your fame the way you could if you didn’t have those scars.”

“There’s no cure for them?”

Remus shakes his head slowly. “Any marks inflicted by a werewolf are permanent.” He can’t take heart from the fact that those marks are now going to include the ones he left on Greyback. It doesn’t pay for what happened to Harry.

Sirius bursts out of the house, swearing. “What the fuck—the wards said nothing was wrong, but—” He stops when he sees Harry. He looks like death. Or like he’s going to make death come for someone soon. “ _What?_ Who did this?” He’s whispering.

“Fenrir Greyback.” Remus is tired now, all the effort he expanded crashing into him at once. “What do you think, Sirius? How in the _world_ did he get through the wards?” He realizes that he’s shouting and tries to stop himself. It isn’t Sirius’s fault that he didn’t know this.

Even though it feels like it really _should_ be.

Sirius waves his wand, checking the wards with the sort of delicacy that Remus can’t imagine exerting, given that he doesn’t have a family home like this. Then his face pales. “My parents—they put an exception into the wards for anyone with a Dark Mark on his arm. I didn’t even _think_ to look for it. My father never put any exceptions for anyone not of Black blood. I mean, none that he ever told me about.” He begins waving his wand again, and for a second, a heaviness that has nothing to do with the storm presses down on Remus. “There. Now the bloody thing is removed.”

He turns back to Harry, and his face crumples. “Shit. _Shit,_ pup, I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Harry just nods limply. His eyes are starting to glaze, and Remus knows what that means. Greyback might have put some kind of fucking poison on his nails, Remus wouldn’t put it past him, and even if he didn’t, the shock of being hurt by a werewolf can send people unconscious. “We need to get him to St. Mungo’s. Do that, Sirius.”

“What are you going to be doing?” Sirius asks, even as he gathers Harry up in his arms.

“Contacting Severus,” Remus tells him. “He can bring the potions we’ll need, and better-brewed than the Healers can make them.”

“If he even wants to be near Harry after this, with that pathological fear he has of werewolves,” Sirius mutters, running for the Floo.

Remus says nothing. But he disagrees. He thinks Severus is going to be fiercely protective of Harry, enough that they might be lucky to see the boy again if they leave him alone with Severus at St. Mungo’s. His fear of werewolves, though, is just going to drive him harder in the direction of vengeance.

Remus only hopes none of that vengeance falls on him. He has a wolf to hunt down.


	5. Flight

Severus narrows his eyes as the fireplace in his lab opens. He gave Harry the red-tinted Floo powder that would grant him access before he went to Black’s house this last time, but he also knows that Harry would never use it.

It is not impossible that someone else found the powder and managed to locate his magical signature on it, meaning that he could be facing an enemy now. Severus turns to the fireplace, his hand on his wand.

But no one comes through. Instead, the wolf’s face appears in the flames. Before Severus can even deal with the abrupt pounding of his heart, Lupin says, “Severus, Harry was attacked by Fenrir Greyback. No infection, but he’ll have scars. Sirius is already taking him to St. Mungo’s. I thought you’d want to be there.”

Then the fireplace goes dark, and it’s as though no one has ever opened it.

Severus is still for long moments. Then he turns and _moves_.

Mr. Zabini starts as Severus sweeps past him a moment later, his pockets full of healing potions. “Sir? Where are you going?”

“St. Mungo’s. Harry has been injured. I want you to stay in this house and open the wards to no one, even if they appear to be wearing my face or Harry’s. If I return and am in my right mind, then I will be able to open the wards on my own.” And with the protections that Severus has in place around the house, he will _have_ to be in his right mind to open them. There is no way to command him or anyone else keyed into the wards to open them because of the Imperius Curse or if they are under any variant of the Confundus Charm.

“But—what? He’s been attacked? Sir, I don’t understand what is going _on_!”

“You have as much information as I have now, Mr. Zabini.” With the lack that the attack had come from Fenrir, but Severus is _not_ going to dispense that particular piece of information until he has no choice. “Stay here. I would take you with me, but I presume I will have enough problems dealing with Black and Lupin.”

Zabini draws back as if Severus has hurt his feelings, but at the moment, Severus does not particularly care. He steps outside the wards and Apparates to the front entrance of St. Mungo’s.

His fingers hurt, he realizes a moment after he arrives. He looks down and sees how strongly he is gripping his wand, so strongly that the grooves on the wood are digging into his palm.

Severus looses his hold and forces himself to slide Occlumency like a dark cloud over his mind. He knows the Healers, and they will not let him into Harry’s room if he is radiating pain and fury and intent to kill.

The cloud does its work. A moment later, Severus opens his eyes and strides into hospital, his mind already forming the deadly, necessary words that mean he will be directed without losing a bit of time to internal politics.

*

Blaise sits still as long as he can make himself. Then he gets up and goes to fetch the Floo powder for a fireplace that will open to an ordinary destination, unlike the warded one that he knows Professor Snape has in his quarters.

“Nott Manor, Theodore Nott’s haven!” he calls out, as he flings the powder into the flames.

The special address is the one for Theo’s bedroom; Theo asked him never to Floo the main manor unless he’s running from enemies and has nowhere else to go, because his feud with his father has become worse. Blaise holds his breath now, wondering if he’ll have to wait for Theo to answer.

Luckily, Theo sticks his head through in the next instant. “Blaise? What’s going on?” He studies Blaise’s shaking hands for a second, and then adds softly, “Does it have something to do with your mum? Or Harry?”

“Harry’s been attacked. He’s at St. Mungo’s. Professor Snape went to tend to him. He got injured somehow while he was with Black and Lupin. Professor Snape wouldn’t take me with him, but—” Blaise realizes that he’s babbling. He calms down and takes a huge gulp of air, big enough that he starts coughing a second later. Theo is patient, and waits. Blaise finally manages to go on. “I know that Harry’s been having nightmares, those sorts of dreams that aren’t really dreams, about Voldemort.”

Theo nods. “And you think Voldemort is the one who attacked him?” Only because Blaise has known Theo for years does he know how nervous he is. Theo’s hands aren’t shaking, or his voice. It’s just his face that’s too still and drawn. “It seems strange that he’d move this soon.”

“No. I don’t think so. I think—Harry keeps talking about how in those dreams, Voldemort only ever has one Death Eater with him. Fenrir Greyback. I can’t—Theo, what if Harry’s a werewolf now?”

Theo stares at him long enough that Blaise feels like screaming. Then he says slowly, “Blaise, the full moon is a fortnight away. He can’t possibly be a werewolf.”

Blaise closes his eyes and waits for the sting of humiliation to fade. Yes, that was pretty stupid of him to forget. And at least Theo is going on briskly now instead of rubbing it in. “It’s possible that Harry will have scars or pain, though. But not that he’s actually infected. Not that there are some people who won’t _treat_ him that way once they see the scars.”

“They would know even if Black and Lupin and Professor Snape don’t say anything?”

“A werewolf’s scars are pretty distinctive. Yes, they’re going to know. That’s probably why the Dark Lord did it in the first place. Some people will distrust and hate Harry now, and think that he could transform even if we publicize the attack date all over the place.”

Blaise feels something in him relax. That was why he came to Theo in the first place. He _knew_ Theo would be able to think of something to do. “So we’re going to be on his side after this?”

Theo gives him a look that—it’s really polite, but Blaise still flushes once he realizes what it is.

“ _I_ certainly don’t intend to abandon him,” Theo says coolly. “Do you? Let me know so that I can tell Harry and Professor Snape. And he might not want you living in his house around his ward, either.”

“I never intended—I just recall that _someone_ started befriending Harry to try and get some more power in Slytherin House at one point!” Blaise hisses. He swallows back some of the things he wants to say, because they’ll only damage his friendship with Theo, too. “Harry might lose that standing now. I wondered if we should distance ourselves in public and continue to support him in private.”

“Even if we could do that with any degree of skill,” Theo says, and his voice is gentler now, “we wouldn’t convince a lot of people. They would see the public distance and decide that meant we distrusted him just like lots of other people will.”

“You’re right,” Blaise mutters, and wonders what it means that he went straight to Theo, of all of them. It’s not like Harry doesn’t have a lot of friends he could contact, and some of them have parents who might take Blaise to St. Mungo’s, too. But no, he went to _Theo_. As if Theo’s Harry lieutenant or something.

Blaise puts it aside to think about later. “So are you going to tell the others, or am I?”

“We’re not going to tell them anything right now,” Theo says fiercely. “Not unless the news gets out in the papers or Harry has to spend so long in hospital that he’s missing holiday visits he set up with them. We have to wait, and trust in—”

“The Healers? Black? _Lupin_?”

“Professor Snape, I was going to say.”

Blaise bites the inside of his cheek and tells himself to be _still_. In the end, he nods and says, “Yes, all right. But I’m still going to want to talk to you about this if Professor Snape stays away for a while and no one is telling us anything. We’re his friends. We have just as much right to know as his guardians do.”

Theo nods. “And when they won’t tell us the truth because of stupid reasons, I agree with you. Now, please get out of my Floo. My father knows when it activates, if he’s paying attention, and I’d rather not give him a chance to question me.”

Blaise hesitates. “Are you—doing all right with him?”

Theo smiles. It’s a nasty smile that Blaise recoils from before he can stop himself. “I believe you should ask _him_ that question.”

And Blaise blinks at the fire as Theo disappears from it, grateful, for a moment, to have a distraction that takes his mind from Harry’s fate.

*

His face just won’t stop _hurting_.

Harry can usually cope with pain just fine. He learned when he was young and stuffed into the cupboard under the stairs that no one was going to come and let him out or comfort him. But this doesn’t _end_. It’s as sharp and fiery now as it was at the moment when Greyback’s claws sliced down his cheek.

At least Sirius hasn’t moved away from him since he brought Harry to hospital. Sometimes the Healers sound as if they’re issuing orders or commands, but Sirius only answers with a single word and then doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand. Harry turns his head towards that source of comfort and closes his eyes, but then flares them open again. Closing the eye that Greyback’s nails tore too close to hurts as much as keeping it open.

“Step away from him, Black.”

Harry raises a weak cry of protest as someone shoulders Sirius away, but it turns out to be Snape, who examines Harry for a moment with burning intensity before he takes out a flask of some kind from his robe pocket. “This salve will help with the pain,” he murmurs, uncapping it and spreading it along the scars.

“Professor Snape! You can’t do that, we have him on certain healing potions, the salve might react badly with them—”

“You think I would use such an ointment when it might react badly with _any_ painkilling potion? This is one of my own design, not that you would recognize it—Mr. Bartlett, was it? He of the Troll on his Potions NEWT?”

The Healer steps back and says something else, but Harry can’t make it out, because the pain is _finally_ calming down. He takes a long, deep breath, and feels as if something is rattling in his chest. He leans against Snape and closed his eyes with a tired whimper. Now, at last, they feel like he could keep them closed and he could sleep.

But Snape’s gentle hand on his shoulder keeps him awake. “How did this happen?” he breathes.

Harry is afraid that he might blame Sirius when it’s not really his fault at all, so he speaks up hastily first. “Fenrir Greyback got through the wards. There was—Sirius didn’t know—there was an exemption in the wards for someone with a Dark Mark—”

“Greyback carried no Mark the last I knew.”

“He didn’t in the first war,” Remus says softly from somewhere off to the side. Harry feels Snape turn around, probably to glare, but Harry clings to him and keeps him there. He doesn’t want Professor Snape chasing off Remus, who’s honestly been pretty great. “But I think that Voldemort probably doesn’t have enough followers to be picky about who he Marks now.”

The Healers are all gasping at the name Voldemort. Harry doesn’t care. He wants to curl up and go to sleep, but Professor Snape is still gently nudging at him. “Harry, I need to know more of what happened.”

Harry sighs. It no longer hurts to talk with the scars pulling at the edge of his mouth, at least. “Greyback came straight for me. He must have known that he couldn’t infect me, what with the full moon not being until two weeks from now, but he did it anyway. Remus thinks that he did it to make me less popular. To make other people think I’m a werewolf and I’m a horrible person.”

“The first one who says that to you shall have to answer to me.”

“Then go talk to that Healer on the first floor who refused to treat Harry, Snape,” Sirius says, his voice almost a dog’s growl. “He said he was already half a werewolf, he must be because he’s been _living_ with a werewolf, and he flinched when I told him to just get me some potions.”

Snape’s arms freeze for a moment. Then he says, “I will deal with him later. Harry is more important.”

Harry sighs softly when he hears that. He’s glad, because he doesn’t think he could move from the warm position he’s currently occupying. His eyes wouldn’t open on their own, now. His hands are resting motionless in Snape’s robe.

But somehow, he can still move his mouth, and he needs to. “They’re going to scar, aren’t they?”

“Of course they are,” snaps some Healer that Harry doesn’t bother opening his eyes to see. “Werewolf wounds always scar. I don’t know how substandard Hogwarts has become since _I_ attended, that you wouldn’t know that.”

Harry tenses for a second. Snape tightens his grip and says, “Someone get that idiot out of here.”

“ _Professor_ Snape—”

But there’s the sound of someone almost being lifted off their feet, and then a door opening and closing. Harry smiles drowsily in spite of the way it makes his face hurt. He bets that was Remus. Remus is pretty strong when he wants to use his werewolf strength instead of pretend that it isn’t there.

And that reminds him of something else he hasn’t told Snape, and he didn’t hear anyone else tell him, either. “Remus attacked Greyback to save me,” he whispers. “That’s the only reason that I’m not more scarred. Remus interfered.”

“Is that true, wolf?”

“You could be a little less gruff with him when he saved Harry’s life, Snape.”

“Yes, I interfered. I tried to yank Greyback’s spine through his skin. I regret to say that I didn’t succeed. He’ll bear _my_ marks, though.”

Remus’s voice is deeper than Harry’s ever heard it, and he feels a fine tremor run through Snape, one that Harry really hopes Sirius and Remus can’t see. He reaches out and grips Snape’s arm. It’s the only comfort he can think to offer. After a second, it seems that it works, because Snape stops shaking, and he says, “Then I will owe you a debt. In the meantime, Harry, lie back.”

Harry doesn’t want to shift away from the comfortable, warm embrace around him, but Snape steps back and he doesn’t have a choice. He whimpers a little as he lands on the bed. Snape’s hands are steady as he takes out a potions vial, from the sound, and nudges the cool glass against Harry’s lips. “Swallow this.”

Harry does. If there’s one thing he has complete faith in at the moment, it’s Snape’s potions. He sighs as the heat that seems to burn inside his body recedes. “I didn’t know anything could take care of that fever,” he murmurs, still not opening his eyes as Snape turns him gently on his side. “The Healers said it would burn for hours.”

“I find myself _disinclined_ to leave Harry in St. Mungo’s when there are so many idiots here,” Snape says, and now he does seem to be over his temper if he’s talking to both Sirius and Remus. “Do you not agree?”

“Yes,” Sirius says at once. “Let’s take him home, and—”

“I will take him home.”

There’s silence for a second, and Harry would laugh if he had the strength. Sirius and Remus really thought that Snape would let them take Harry back to the house where he was hurt? _Really_? Harry’s only _known_ the professor for a year, as opposed to just knowing about him, and he realized better.

“I’m sure there aren’t more exceptions in the wards, Snape,” Sirius says after a second. “I didn’t know about this one, but I already fixed it. I’m sure there aren’t any others.”

“Are you? I am _not_.”

There’s a moment of breathless silence when it sounds as though people are going to erupt at each other. Harry doesn’t want that to happen. He manages to roll over on his back and open his eyes, and of course they look at him. People who are the victims of werewolf attacks aren’t supposed to be moving this well after them, Harry knows.

But those people don’t usually have the benefit of Snape’s potions.

“Don’t,” Harry croaks. “Don’t fight over me. I was already so tired, and I—really can’t take this right now.”

Snape bows his head, his hair swishing around his face until Harry can’t see his eyes. “Then we shall abide by your decision. Where do you wish to recover? Even—here would be an option.” He looks disgusted as he says it.

Harry thinks of what Healer Lyndell would probably say. Not that he should balance people or that he should worry about what the papers will say if he doesn’t choose to stay in St. Mungo’s.

What he _wants_.

So Harry swallows something that he won’t let be tears and says, “I want to recover in Professor Snape’s house.”

He doesn’t look at Sirius and Remus, because he can’t. He doesn’t even really see triumph on Snape’s face, because of that hair. Instead, Snape just nods and steps forwards and casts a Lightening Charm on him, lifting Harry from the bed.

Part of Harry is screaming about how this will make him look weak and he doesn’t want it to happen, but it’s such a small part, and he shuts it up so easily. Harry droops his head on Snape’s shoulder again, and the warmth he was missing settles around him.

He lets go of worries about the future, and what Sirius will think, and whether Remus will be hurt, and what his friends will be worrying about, and he lets himself be conscious of only the strong arms around him. He sleeps.


	6. Walls

“He’s going to have those scars for the rest of his life, isn’t he?” The tone in Zabini’s voice makes Severus wince as he lowers Harry to rest, carefully, on a small bed Severus has conjured in his own room. He respects Harry’s wishes most of the time, but he isn’t going to leave him to suffer alone unless Harry wakes and demands it.

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Severus steps back and considers the wounds. They wind from the top of Harry’s forehead down along the side of his mouth, and then swerve suddenly off to the side. That is when Lupin struck Greyback from the side, from what Severus understands.

It is still incredible to him that bloody Remus Lupin, a coward if there ever was one, was so involved in defeating Greyback, but Severus will welcome more strength bent to Harry’s defense.

“What can lessen the scars from a werewolf’s attack?”

“Some of my potions, Mr. Zabini. They already eased his suffering when the Healers gave him the mildest painkillers and backed away.” Severus shakes his head. Potions experiments are often not conducted because they are expensive or dangerous. But there are _simple_ methods to lessen the cost and the danger. While it has to been to Severus’s profit that there are so few experimental Potions brewers in Britain, it has also infuriated him. “Perhaps I can invent a salve that will remove the scars as well as the pain.”

“I’ll help.”

Severus frowns at Zabini. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll cut the ingredients. I’ll dice everything you need. I’ll—I’ll do everything I can to keep Harry from becoming a pariah in wizarding society.”

“To some extent, he already was one,” Severus murmurs, thinking of the rumors that flew in Harry’s second year about him being the Heir of Slytherin. “But I can brew potions faster than you can aid me. I _can_ use you in another capacity while I am brewing,” he adds hastily, when Zabini’s shoulders slump. He is more invested in protecting this particular young man’s happiness than he would like when he already has a ward. “Keep Harry’s spirits up. Reassure him that not all his friends would abandon him.”

“ _None_ of us are going to do that!”

“Really, Mr. Zabini? You think that Mr. Smith or Miss Greengrass, those who see Harry as a ticket to political power, will remain close to him?”

“I can’t speak for Smith, I don’t know him well enough. But I do think that Daphne thinks of him as a friend, sir. Not a rung on the ladder.”

Severus shrugs. In truth, he has more to worry about than the turning of young students that he always thought whirling weathercocks in any case. “Stay close to him, Mr. Zabini. You may read as you like, but fetch me when he wakes.” Then Severus turns to face his own lab.

He has _plans._ Plans that will involve making a dent in the supposed permanence of werewolf scars harder than anything ever has.

*

Blaise tenses as he sees Harry stir in the bed. He’s about to get up and run to the lab, but Harry turns around and frowns at him. “Blaise. Why does—my face hurts—oh.”

Blaise nods a little, his eyes fixed on Harry. His mouth pulls to the side when he speaks, because of the scars. Or the wounds, Blaise supposes he should say. That’s what they are now, even though Blaise knows as well as Harry and Professor Snape that they’re going to be scars in a week at most.

Harry sighs and closes his eyes for a second. Then he says something Blaise didn’t expect at all. “The Healers are going to spread the news, aren’t they? It won’t be long until everyone in the wizarding world knows I was attacked by a werewolf.”

“I don’t know for sure,” Blaise hedges. “Professor Snape didn’t say anything about that.”

Harry’s face softens when Blaise mentions Professor Snape. “Well. I suppose it was going to happen anyway. And if it wasn’t the scars, then someone would start a story someday about how I must be the Heir of Slytherin since I was Sorted there.” He sighs and raises a hand as if he’s going to swipe at the wounds. Blaise grabs his wrist to stop him.

“Professor Snape put some sort of salve there,” Blaise explains when Harry catches his eye. “It’s drying and flaking, a little, but he probably still doesn’t want you to rub it off.”

“And he told you to go get him the minute I woke up, right?”

“Right.”

“Then I suppose you should do that. But, Blaise? Thanks for being willing to stick by me through this.”

“I didn’t actually say that, you know,” Blaise mutters cautiously as he takes a step towards the lab, still looking to make sure that Harry doesn’t fall off the conjured bed that Snape made for him. It’s smaller than the bed that Harry has in his own room.

“I know, but you haven’t flinched once.” Harry smiles at him, which doesn’t seem to pull at his mouth the way speaking does. “Thank you.”

Blaise nods and finally walks away, seeing Harry lie down with his hands behind his head and stare at the ceiling. He hopes that between them, he and Professor Snape can give Harry something else to think about than the wounds.

*

“Drink this potion.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry murmurs as he accepts the steaming flask from Professor Snape’s hand. The smell is almost like a Pepper-Up Potion, but Harry doubts it’s that mild. He swallows to make Snape happy. It tastes like moldy socks washed in dirt, as usual.

“I will work on doing something about the taste when we have seen whether it will keep your wounds from scarring.”

Harry smiles vaguely and hands the flask back. “Thanks. So. How bad do you think the political fallout is going to be?”

Snape stares at him in surprise, before he narrows his eyes and his nostrils both at once. “You are _not_ to start worrying about that, Harry.”

“I just asked you a simple question!”

“And one that you don’t have to worry about yet,” Snape says, his voice as smooth as silk. When Harry used to hear that voice, it meant he was going to get a hell of a detention. He thinks he hasn’t actually heard it for months, but Snape folds his arms now and adopts a scowl. “You will concentrate on getting better, and telling me which of the potions ease your pain the most.”

“But the Healers know, right? That the marks are from a werewolf’s claws, I mean. So they’ll tell people. I just want to be prepared.”

“You are not to worry.”

“You’re worrying me more by not telling me!” Harry shouts, and then winces. He doesn’t want to yell at Snape like that, especially after he chose his house over Grimmauld Place for right now.

Snape closes his eyes and sounds for a second as if he’s counting under his breath, which tells Harry that he doesn’t want to be an irritated guardian, either. Then he looks at Harry and murmurs, “Will you trust me to handle it? Yes, there will be fallout. Newspaper articles, among other things, and I’m sure someone will decide that you’re a werewolf despite the impossibility of it happening on anything other than a full moon. But _I_ am the adult.”

Harry gapes at him for a second. Apparently it goes on too long, because Snape’s voice becomes thin with exasperation. “What have I said wrong now?”

“I—that’s not something that’s ever worked out for us,” Harry replies, shocked enough that he tells the truth. “ _I_ have to act like the adult most of the time, at least when Sirius gets involved.”

Snape doesn’t look away, though Harry sees his face twitch as if he’d like to. “You are not the only one who spoke with Healer Lyndell and learned something about the way you tend to behave,” he says, through gritted teeth.

Harry considers him. He’s aware of the crushing weariness at the back of his mind. God, he wants to lay this burden _down_. But he’s also aware that Sirius and Remus might want to come over and Snape might hold them back, because—because of so many things.

“Do you trust me?” Snape repeats. “Either you do or you do not. I will back off and let you read the newspapers if you insist. I will let you weigh yourself down. I will let you lead the arguments and listen to the insults. I do not wish to block you from doing what you need to do. But I ask you that let me handle some of it.”

Harry swallows. “What—what if Sirius and Remus want to see me and you’re angry at them?”

“I would not forbid visits. I would ask, if you let me handle the political fallout, that they refrain from discussing that fallout with you. So I would ban newspapers from the house for further notice and ask them to leave if they began to discuss it.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. It sounds so good that it makes his eyes smart. He _wants_ this. He wants to just lay the burden down for a while and not worry about what the public would say or what Voldemort is planning.

But—

How can he? What happens if Snape snaps at Sirius, or Sirius gets angry enough to curse him, or Snape gets upset because Sirius didn’t protect him well enough at Grimmauld Place? What if they have an argument that means Harry has to go back to the exhausting balancing act?

On the other hand.

He chose to come to Snape’s house because he didn’t _want_ to worry about that kind of thing. Because he still thought that it was possible Sirius’s wards might fail. Because he thought he would have to see Dumbledore at their house, and talk about the scars, and he doesn’t _want_ to. He wants to lie in a warm bed and recover for a while.

He can’t have that if he insists on shouldering the whole thing that he came here to escape.

“All right,” he whispers.

Snape is studying him with such a furrowed brow that Harry finally realizes he hasn’t heard the words. He clears his throat and repeats them. “All right. I’ll—trust you. Just don’t do anything to antagonize Sirius or Remus unless they do something really hurtful, all right? Remus might be the reason that I’m still alive. Please don’t start calling him a horrible werewolf or something, all right?”

Snape’s face clears slowly. Then he says, “Of course not. I would come up with much more creative insults.”

Harry smiles, but it’s weakly. Honestly, the heat is rising in his face again, the fever that he thought he heard Remus or one of the Healers talking about. The fever that comes to everyone scarred by a werewolf’s claws. He lies back down in the bed, and Snape moves at once to cover him up, his eyes lingering on Harry’s expression as if drinking it in.

“I will prove worthy of your trust in me,” is the last thing that Harry hears him say before the darkness closes in with soft, lapping waves again.

*

“Harry was attacked by a _what_?”

Ron winces as he hears his mother’s cry cut through the kitchen. Usually he gets to the _Prophet_ first just because Mum is busy with breakfast and the twins are off somewhere, and Ginny sleeps in later than he does. But the one morning he didn’t…

“You know that the _Prophet_ was printing all sorts of rubbish about Harry last year,” he says, weakly. He can’t be stronger when he doesn’t know what happened yet. “I’m sure it isn’t as bad as it looks, Mum.”

“Not as bad as him being attacked by a _werewolf_?” Mum turns and slams the paper and a bowl of porridge down on the table together. “Don’t you see what you’re _saying_ , Ron?”

Ron stares at the front page. There’s a picture there, but it doesn’t actually _show_ anything, just a small figure who might be Harry getting carried into St. Mungo’s by someone in a dark robe. That person could be Snape or Sirius or _anybody_. Ron swallows and goes back to reading the article. They do say that Harry got attacked by a werewolf.

But then the article veers off and starts talking about how that must mean Harry is going to _be_ a werewolf. Ron rolls his eyes, glad for once that he’s been keeping track of moon phases for his Astronomy summer assignment. “He can’t be a werewolf, Mum. The full moon is too far away for that.”

“But that’s not what I’m worried about, Ron! That _poor_ boy! And he’s stuck in a house with Slytherins and—and the professor who despised him until last year, and—”

Ron feels a horrible crawling on the back of his neck as he realizes that Mum is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Ron says, babbling before he realizes it. “I mean, Professor Snape was going to take really good care of him. And he gets to spend part of the week with Sirius and Mr. Lupin, too. I mean, I’m sure that he’ll be okay.”

“Okay? He got clawed by a _werewolf_!” Mum takes a deep breath and stands so tall that it really looks as if she’s looming against the sky. Then she says, “I’m going to do some _baking_ ,” and turns away with a heavy step that means there’ll be long rows of biscuits and maybe even a cake on the counter steaming before nightfall.

Ron looks at the article again. He hopes that Mum is going to send Harry a cake. His birthday is next week. They were planning a party…

They can still plan a party. Ron stands up with his jaw clenched. He’s going to write Harry a letter and make sure that he knows not all of his friends are going to abandon him over a _stupid_ article.

*

“Your gamble has not worked out, Daphne.”

Daphne keeps cutting up her roast beef, unconcerned. Her mother narrows her eyes and taps the article with her fingers, the article Daphne read this morning but which her mother didn’t read until this evening because she was at the Ministry handling a crisis all day. “The boy is a _werewolf_ victim now. I know well enough that he will not turn, but the general public does not. What political use will Harry Potter be with half the wizarding population fearing to come near him? Other parents may even demand his expulsion from Hogwarts.”

“But you won’t, Mother,” Daphne says, and smiles at her. But the smile is really more for her younger sister. Astoria sits wide-eyed across the table. She ducks her head and pretends she hasn’t been listening when Daphne smiles at her.

“Why should I not?”

“Because he is more than my ally,” Daphne says, and sips at her pumpkin juice. She used to not like it, but then she started drinking it every meal at Hogwarts. It would seem strange to go a summer without it, now.

“What is he?” Mother’s face hasn’t relaxed, and her fingers haven’t stopped tapping next to the article.

Daphne looks up. It takes more courage than she thought it would to speak the truth, even though she’s been planning it since this morning. “My friend.”

Her mother’s fingers stop moving. Astoria squeaks and then puts her hands over her mother. Mother speaks without taking her gaze from Daphne for an instant. “Astoria, if you are incapable of acting like a proper young witch, then I will exile you to your room.”

Astoria’s eyes fill with tears, and she runs away. Daphne sighs internally. She thinks their parents are too hard on Astoria, who’s naturally more expressive and was Sorted into Ravenclaw for a reason. But at the same time, it’s a little relieving to know that she won’t have those expressive eyes on her when she’s trying to explain this.

“Tell me.”

Daphne nods. “I gave him that pendant that he wears now. He accepted it, after learning what it did. He empowered the pendant to protect him against malicious potions, which made some of his behavior strange in the first days after he was Sorted into Slytherin and affected his reputation. He includes me in his study group and doesn’t even realize that I have acted as his bodyguard. Mother, he trusts me so much that he doesn’t look up when I stand _right_ beside him.”

That’s part of who Harry is, in truth, but Daphne knows it will have a much bigger impact on her parents. Such a thing would be unthinkable for a Greengrass with anyone except close family. Her mother catches her breath. Then she clears her throat and says, “But he has many people in his study group, I have heard.”

“He does,” Daphne agrees, not letting it ruffle her. “I was merely giving you one example. I am accepted in close groups and small ones, and _literally_ close to him. He’s written to me this summer despite having all sorts of training to go through, and shuffling back and forth between houses every week. I have no doubt that he’ll write to me as soon as Professor Snape permits him to after this attack.” She waits, and then adds, when she trusts a dollop of sweetness will do most good, “You won’t throw all my hard work away, Mother? I am not to be condemned to something so wearying and _wrong_?”

Mother’s head jerks a little. Then she shakes her head, once. “No—no, of course not. I need to discuss this with your father.” And she rises and wanders out of the dining room, as dazed as Daphne has ever seen her.

Daphne relaxes back against the chair. She never had any intention of giving up her friendship with Harry in the first place, but it will be less wearying not to have to write her letters to him and coordinate her visits in secret.

And she will achieve her goals. Greater prominence for the Greengrass family, and an entry on the winning side of the war, is one thing.

But not all.

Daphne will achieve her own prominence. She will bring her sister with her, if she can. At the moment, it’s hard to tell how intelligent Astoria really is under the love for academia and the way she cries herself to sleep on the slightest provocation.

And Daphne will have a _friend_.

In the meantime…

Daphne stands up, and goes to comfort her sister. She really should ask Harry to welcome her into the study group when they get back to Hogwarts. Astoria will be a second-year, no younger than some of the ones he chose last year.

All of this will go a long way towards helping Daphne keep her private vow.

_No matter what, I will shine._


	7. Walk the Walk

“Should you be out of bed, Harry?”

“I’m _fine_ , Blaise. Even Professor Snape would say—”

“I will be the judge of that, Harry.”

Harry turns around and scowls at Snape, who is standing in the doorway of the bedroom with his arms full of potions. Blaise prudently takes a step back. “That’s not what I thought you were going to say, sir.”

“It is what is happening, regardless.” Snape puts down the potions on a table that holds stains from more than one dripping vial in the past and steps forwards, laying his hand on Harry’s forehead. Harry resists the urge to fidget as best he can. He doesn’t _want_ to put Snape off and act resistant, and he’d still prefer not to deal with things like the newspapers, but he’s also so bored of lying in bed.

“You have a slight fever,” Snape says.

“Can I _please_ just get up? I’m so tired of staring at the walls and nothing else.”

“I brought you books.”

“I’ve read them all.”

“You are not to go flying.”

Harry winces before he can stop himself. That was something he had to admit he knew Snape wouldn’t allow, but he had been going to ask for it anyway. He’d thought that if he did well enough, with trembling lips and big eyes, then maybe Snape would let him. Blaise told him the other day that he does that kind of manipulative pout really well.

“No flying, Harry.” Snape’s voice is soft and his eyes compelling. There’s no laughter in either. “You may do something else. If I find you flying, you will be confined to bed for a week more.”

“I mean, what if I take someone with me?” Harry bargains, a little weakly. Sirius and Remus are coming over today, and he really hoped he could meet them on his broom and show them he’s all better. They both worry so. “What if I don’t go very high off the ground?”

“No flying. You still have a fever. If you fall asleep as suddenly as you have in the last few days, then you could fall.”

Harry meets Snape’s eyes, then reluctantly looks down and nods. The flip side of having Snape protect him from people like reporters is that Harry _has to do as he says._ That’s the side he somehow forgot about when he was asking Snape to protect him.

But a glow of warmth fills the center of his chest anyway.

“We could play chess?” Blaise offers. “Maybe you would lose less awfully than you usually do. Some of the fever-dream hallucinations would probably be better moves than what you make on your own.”

Harry glares, but Blaise only grins at him. Harry finally allows himself to smile back. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Chess it is.”

“ _After_ your potions.”

Blaise’s empty hands say he’s not going to get in the middle of this. Harry tries another half-hearted glare before he scoops up the nearest potions vial and drowns it in one grumpy gulp. The heat pulls back from his forehead, and he takes a deep breath as a weight seems to lift off his chest at the same moment.

It’s Snape’s theory that one reason werewolf victims so often sicken is the shame and horror from what happened to them. So his experimental potions tend to affect Harry’s mind as well as his fever. So far, Harry doesn’t have any complaints about that.

Then Harry has to endure another salve being rubbed on his face that Snape thinks might alleviate the scars (it’s not that he hates the texture or anything, it just feels so _intimate_ with Blaise standing right there), and a potion specifically for long-lasting fevers, and a berry-tasting one that will make him sleepy in a little while. Harry has slept more in the past few days than he has in his whole bloody _life._

Telling Snape that makes no difference. The man only nods and pours more potions down Harry’s throat when he tries.

At least he manages to get out into the drawing room and set up the chessboard with Blaise. Blaise is looking straight at him now while he mocks the way Harry moves his pawns, at least. That’s a difference from the first days when he seemed afraid that staring at his scars would irritate Harry.

“You really don’t mind being scarred?” Blaise asks, during a pause when Harry is staring at the board and trying to remember how a knight moves.

“What?” Harry looks up. His friend’s eyes are intent now.

“You just—don’t act like it bothers you. My mum had a boyfriend that got clawed, and not on the face even, and he spent weeks on end moaning about how terrible it was and how horrible he felt. Then he—” Blaise stops abruptly. “He didn’t moan anymore.”

Harry reaches across the table and squeezes Blaise’s hand. It must be terrible to have a mother who murders people and not even feel you can do anything about it. Sometimes Harry gets sick of hearing stories about his parents and being compared to them, but at least he knows they were good people.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says quietly.

“I know.” Blaise sighs out and shakes his head as if he’s getting rid of all his grief that way. Then he sits up. “Anyway. So why doesn’t it bother you?”

“It does,” Harry says slowly, frowning at the chessboard. “But not as much as it would otherwise, I think, because I have the other scar. You know? People are going to stare and point at me in the streets anyway. I have to go to school and bear people whispering and gossiping about me anyway. I have to fight Voldemort anyway. So I might as well go straight ahead and work on ways to defeat him and change my life for real, instead of moaning about things I’ll never be able to change.”

Blaise is quiet. Harry glances at him and finds him sitting there with his brow furrowed and his glare aimed at the chessboard.

“It’s horrible you feel you have to struggle like that,” Blaise finally says.

“But it’s not a struggle. It’s the way life is.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Someday, it won’t be,” Harry says. “Now, why don’t we go back to my struggles with chess?”

*

Remus looks carefully at Harry as he and Sirius hug him. Harry’s smile is small and tired, but he hugs back with enthusiasm. He does look better than Remus thought he would just a week out from the attack, and better than when they last visited three days ago, too. The scars have faded—a little, or at least Remus hopes they have, he hopes he isn’t deceiving himself—and his face is pale instead of hectic and flushed.

“Remus, Sirius, good to see you!” Harry says. His friend, Zabini, nods to them, his eyes cautious. “I’m sorry we can’t go flying. I wanted to, but Professor Snape said no.”

Sirius opens his mouth. Remus glares at him, long and steadily, from the corner of his eye, and Sirius shuts it with a grumble. Remus nods to him and faces Harry again. “That’s all right. We’ll be more than happy to do whatever you want to.”

“Then that will be eating lunch, first.”

Remus jumps despite himself when Snape sweeps into the room, his eyes cold. He largely left them alone during their last visit with Harry. Now he’s watching as if he thinks they’re going to kidnap Harry and take him to Greyback.

A growl tries to rise in Remus’s throat; he strangles it. He knows Harry chose to be here with Snape, and that means they’re going to support him.

Even if it means that Sirius’s ribs are going to be very, very bruised from Remus’s elbow before all is said and done.

“All right, sir,” Harry says agreeably, and waits until Snape’s back is turned to roll his eyes at Remus and Sirius. That makes Remus smile. Harry is thriving here, and he obviously isn’t cowed by Snape, the way Sirius had been afraid he might be.

The lunch is the most carefully-made thing Remus has seen in a long time, even though Sirius also has a house-elf. (Of course, Kreacher isn’t fond of _either_ of them). There is an exact amount of steamed vegetables, skinless cooked chicken, simmering soup with tantalizing hints of beef and tomato, and some kind of drink—pumpkin juice for Sirius, water for Remus, Snape, and Zabini, and milk for Harry—for all of them.

It is a shame that, this close to the full moon, Remus doesn’t care much for vegetables. He eats his chicken and his soup slowly, with great care, and drinks the water, then plays expertly with the carrots, corn, and potatoes so that it looks as if he’s been eating.

Harry, he notices, is doing the same thing.

“You are not hungry this afternoon, Harry?”

Harry freezes for a second—he might always do that when there’s food involved, Remus thinks sadly—and then glances up at Snape. “Sorry, sir, but I have more of an appetitive for meat,” he says.

Snape freezes in turn. Harry nods, his eyes a little sad. Remus realizes with a jolt that Harry is sad about reminding Snape of his experience with a werewolf, not sad about disappointing him or something like that.

 _He’s a lot more empathetic and observant than most kids his age would be,_ Remus thinks, swallowing hard.

“Very well,” Snape says a second later, as if he never hesitated, and he gestures for a house-elf. One appears, and Snape gives it a quiet order. The plate with a steak covered with bloody juices appears maybe five minutes later.

Harry cuts into it with enthusiasm, then stops and looks at Remus. “Do you want some, Moony?”

Remus catches Snape’s eye and knows that no matter how hungry he is, he’d better refuse. They have steaks waiting at Sirius’s house, anyway. So he just smiles and shakes his head, and goes back to playing with his vegetables. Harry eats most of the steak, then has a quiet argument with Snape about whether he actually needs to eat all of it.

The most surprising thing is that a plate appears next to Remus’s with a smaller steak, done even bloodier than the one the house-elves gave Harry. Remus’s eyes immediately dart over to Snape’s back.

The man, still leaning over as if he’s going to pick up the steak like a parent bird and shove it down Harry’s throat, gives no signs of noticing.

Remus does catch Sirius’s eye. His mouth is wide open in a gape. Remus nods to him and begins eating.

That gesture does more than anything else to convince him that Snape wants peace between them.

*

Harry looks up suspiciously as he hears someone Apparate outside. Snape wouldn’t do that. He’d just walk through the wards. And Sirius and Remus would either Floo in or tell Snape ahead of time they were coming. He looks at Blaise and sees that he’s thinking the same thing.

“Your mother?” Harry asks quietly.

“I don’t see how she’d have any way of knowing I’m here.”

But Blaise looks pale under his dark skin anyway. Harry squeezes his hand and then stands up. “Why don’t you go hide in your room? It might be a reporter or someone for me anyway.” He leaves the thought unsaid that it can’t possibly be one of the parents of their friends. They’d owl first before they came.

Blaise doesn’t argue with him like a Gryffindor would about hiding. He just darts off. Harry moves slowly towards the front door and looks out the window that Snape’s enchanted so that it shows most of the front garden and the path that leads up to their door at an angle.

For a second, Harry thinks a bright blur is standing there. Then it resolves itself as he blinks through the sunlight and sees Dumbledore in his bright-spangled robes, his hands folded behind his back as he looks at some of the flowers that Snape has growing in the garden for Potions ingredients.

Harry feels his breathing speed up. He swallows. He’s _sure_ that it’s not a coincidence that Dumbledore has come over at a time when Snape isn’t here.

His brain whirls for a second about who he ought to Floo. Flooing a Death Eater doesn’t seem like a great idea, but Sirius and Remus wouldn’t see what’s wrong with Dumbledore being there, and the same thing might apply to Mrs. Weasley, and the Grangers don’t have a Floo connection, and Harry doesn’t know anyone else’s parents’ Floo addresses.

_Wait._

It seems silly, but Harry walks over to the Floo and throws in a pinch of powder, calling, “Malfoy Manor!”

*

Dumbledore takes a long time to walk over and lean his magic against the wards, which is the equivalent of a knock and makes a soft alarm ring out in the house. By that time, Harry is stepping back from the fireplace and giving his guest a nervous smile.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa Malfoy’s smile is a little sharp, a little quiet, a little thoughtful, but she only says, “Thank you for inviting me, dear. This is a beautiful house. A shame that some guests disfigure it so.”

Harry gives her another smile out of sheer not knowing what to do, and goes to disengage the wards and open the door. Snape is going to be angry at him, but Snape isn’t _here;_ he’s off somewhere gathering ingredients for the latest experimental potion he wants to use on Harry’s scars. Harry has no idea if an owl will reach him in time, and he still doesn’t want Snape walking around defying Dumbledore openly anyway. Dumbledore could sack him.

Snape would say Harry doesn’t need to worry about that. Harry does anyway. He _has_ to when no one else is home.

But maybe Snape and Healer Lyndell will be proud of him for fetching an adult? Harry hopes so.

“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore says, nodding and smiling at him. Harry keeps his eyes stubbornly fixed on the Headmaster’s chin, so that he’s kind of looking at him but not really. He doesn’t want his thoughts read, and he doesn’t trust Dumbledore not to Legilimize him, and he doesn’t trust his own Occlumency to keep him out. “Is Severus home? I have something to discuss—”

He stops and blinks. The look on his face when he catches sight of Mrs. Malfoy makes Harry want to laugh. But he just nods and asks, “Do you know Mrs. Malfoy, sir? She decided to come over here today.”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore’s eyes are narrow when Harry dares to look up at them. “Does Severus know about this?”

“Oh, he keeps a close watch on the Floo and the wards, sir.” And now Harry _knows_ that Snape will be proud of him, because he’s managing to lie without actually lying. “Do you want to sit down and have something to drink?”

“That would be a good idea, Headmaster,” Mrs. Malfoy says, right on cue. She sounds gentle and keeps one hand on Harry’s shoulder exactly as if Professor Snape _did_ ask her to come over and watch Harry. “Hospitality is always a good idea.”

Dumbledore gives her yet another baffled glance, although Harry doesn’t think it’s because he’s helpless. Snape is always telling him to remember that most of his enemies _won’t_ be helpless. “No, I think—I think that my business should be confided to Severus in private.”

“He’ll be sorry to have missed you, sir,” Harry says, yet again speaking with perfect truth. “Do you want me to write down a message for him or something?”

“No, it is rather sensitive. I did want to see how you were doing, though, my boy, after everything.”

“Well, it’s summer, sir. So you know that at least means I don’t have homework and things like that.”

“You were wounded by a werewolf, Harry.”

Harry keeps himself from touching the scars, although he’s less worried about what Dumbledore would think than Mrs. Malfoy thinking he’s weak. “Oh, that. Yeah, it was boring to stay in bed for as long as I had to.” _Don’t tell him how long you had to, don’t give him any specifics,_ breathes Snape’s voice in the back of Harry’s head. “But I think I’m going to be all right, sir. It’s not like he could infect me, after all. It wasn’t a full moon.”

“Nonetheless, you will have a few important restrictions at Hogwarts, my boy.”

“What restrictions would those be, Headmaster? I also have a son at the school. I would be interested in hearing of them.”

Mrs. Malfoy’s hand squeezes his shoulder again. Harry keeps quiet, even though part of him is getting tired of this. Thoughts clash and whirl in his head. Is this what would make having a mum different from having a dad?

But he _doesn’t_ have a mum, and if he isn’t used to it by now, he should be, Harry tells himself ruthlessly, and waits for Dumbledore’s answer. He has the distinct impression that Dumbledore would like to talk to him alone, but, well, he can’t. That’s the way it is.

“I mean that you will have to be kept away from students at the full moon until we are sure that you will not change,” Dumbledore says finally.

“Oh, but I’ll have two more full moons at home, Headmaster. So we’ll know by the time I go back to school.”

“You may need to watch out who you touch, as some students have a phobia of werewolves.”

“Then I really hope I can teach them better just by being around them and being normal, Headmaster.”

“You may need to disguise the scars, as their presence in the classroom could distract—”

“ _This_ excuse is the one you offer, Albus? After doing nothing when another student was attacked by a werewolf?”

The voice is like soft thunder, rolling from the doorway of the house. Snape is home.

And Harry’s heart lifts in gladness.


	8. Talking

Severus has never known such rage. It burns inside him and all through him, and smothers part of his brain, but leaves the rest like crystal lit with dark lightning. He felt it the moment he came back through the wards and sensed the traces of Albus’s magic.

Albus came when he had to _know_ Severus would not be home. And standing behind Harry is Narcissa Malfoy, watching everything with calm blue eyes that Severus realizes will hold curiosity at bay while recording everything.

Severus straightens up and says, “I must speak to you, Albus. Will you come with me?”

“I did indeed want to speak with you,” Albus replies. He doesn’t look discomposed, but then, Severus gave up waiting for such a result years ago. He nods to Harry. “I think Mr. Potter needs to come with us. The news concerns the restrictions that he will need to be under at Hogwarts now that he has been infected.”

“And I repeat, Albus: you did not impose such restrictions when a werewolf who _had_ attacked another student was there. A fully-transformed and infected werewolf, which you must know Harry is not. Are you going to change your mind now?”

“Of course, my boy. Multiple people have told me that I handled that incident wrongly. I wish to make up for it now.”

“Then save your _restrictions_ for true werewolves,” Severus says, and derives some satisfaction from seeing Albus’s face pale at his cascade of vitriol. “Harry need not come with us. I can explain the situation to him later.”

“I do insist, Severus.”

“In that case, I would like to come, too,” Narcissa says mildly. “As I was explaining to the Headmaster, I have a son at the school, and I would like to know how these restrictions might affect him. And I never did have the cup of tea that I thought was such a good idea when Mr. Potter mentioned it.”

“Why should the rules Harry has to follow affect your son at all, Mrs. Malfoy?” Albus is in fullest and most irritating twinkling mode. “I think we should soon know if young Mr. Malfoy had been infected.”

Narcissa lets her eyes widen a little. “Oh, but all the arguments you mentioned are obviously nonsense, Headmaster, as Mr. Potter was able to tear them apart. I presume that you wanted to tell the truth to him in private. But my son will not cease being friends with Mr. Potter, of course. Therefore I would like to know what level of hostility he will need to expect from his professors and other students for maintaining the friendship.”

Albus’s smile is so brittle. Severus rejoices in the sight. “I would _truly_ prefer to explain to them to Severus alone, Mrs. Malfoy. He is the child’s guardian. He needs to understand what we are doing for the safety of other students.”

“I would only tell Harry and Mrs. Malfoy soon in any case,” Severus says. “Before you had left, perhaps. They might as well come with us, Albus.”

Albus gives the deep, chiding, disappointed sigh that was once so able to control Severus when Albus was speaking of Lily and the way Severus had failed her. But Severus wonders now that he ever let it control his dealings with Harry. Of course he should have been more active from the beginning, not letting Harry’s initial Gryffindor Sorting and the silly way he had behaved in his first two years throw him off.

He needs to be better than that.

“Very well,” Albus finally capitulates, shaking his head as though he doesn’t understand why no one will trust him. “Then perhaps we can go to the dining room and sit down, if we are to have tea.”

*

Narcissa makes sure to watch the Headmaster’s hands, and Severus’s for that matter, as tea is served by the house-elves resident here. No one tries to drop anything into her cup, but she suspects that might be because these men are so solely focused on each other.

She sips her tea and smiles. Lucius once told her that he thought Severus would never rebel against the Headmaster, that he had a leash around Severus’s neck worth more than Galleons. And Narcissa agreed with that, but she will still take pleasure in telling her husband that Severus is no longer letting the leash choke him.

“Why should Harry be under any restrictions at all?” Severus asks the minute the house-elves disappear. Mr. Potter is seated beside him, his face pale. It is an unfortunate look for him, emphasizing the wounds that slash down the left side of his face. Narcissa wonders if he would take it amiss if she sent cream that might cover those, or if Severus would. “He is _not_ an infected werewolf.”

“The other students will fear him.”

“The other students also fear Muggleborns and half-giants and the mention of Voldemort’s name. You have never let any of those terrors keep you from allowing those things at Hogwarts, Albus.”

Narcissa’s legs tense beneath the table in shock at hearing Severus say the Dark Lord’s name aloud. She eyes him and sees the way his mouth and nose lead the way as he leans forwards.

_I was right and Lucius was wrong. Severus has abandoned the Dark Lord entirely._

It’s an interesting thought, but at the moment, Narcissa tucks it away instead of allowing it to influence her behavior. She watches as Dumbledore spends a moment sighing. It has no effect on Severus, who shoves a plate of scones that has just appeared towards Harry and never looks away from his employer.

“You know it is different. Harry has such a high level of notoriety that—”

“That you feel the need to restrict his movements? To pander to the fears that I thought you wanted to dismiss, Albus?”

Narcissa watches Dumbledore stroke his beard and thinks he’s getting frustrated. She has always been good at sensing such things even when no behavior demonstrates them. “It will be different because there will be demands on me that no Headmaster has ever faced before.”

“No, other Headmasters stood firm behind their decision to allow prejudice rule in their school. I did not think you were such a weakling, Albus.”

Narcissa very carefully does not choke on her tea. It sounds as if Harry wants to. His eyes are flickering back and forth, and he has a scone posed in his hand without eating it. Severus catches his eye and frowns at him. Harry immediately stuffs the scone so far down his throat that he then has to make a whistling noise and wave his arms around frantically. Narcissa hides her amusement and gives him her napkin to wipe his face.

“Listen to me, Severus. I must think of the good of the school as a whole, instead of only one student.”

“Oh, indeed. Is that why you bought a broom for this one student? Why you permitted him to be on the Quidditch team _and_ own that broom? Why you awarded points to this student for putting himself and his friends in danger? Why you neglected to tell anyone the truth about the basilisk in the walls after you suspected it? Why you placed this student with Muggle relatives who had no legal right to take care of him?”

 _How extraordinarily interesting,_ Narcissa thinks. She sets her mind to record words and events rather than intervene. It is a kind of training that her mother insisted both Narcissa and her sisters have. It makes Pensieve memories seen later extraordinarily clear and easy to navigate. Narcissa has never had such an interesting scene to recall before, which helps.

*

Harry sits still at Snape’s side, not sure what will happen if they remember that he’s _right there_. He watches Snape go to battle for him and swallows again and again.

All he can think is: _I misjudged Snape._

Harry thought he would be angry, sure, but mostly at _Harry_ for letting Dumbledore into the house. This boiling rage against Dumbledore is something Harry has never seen. Snape’s hand is clenched as if he’s a few breaths away from punching the Headmaster in the face. It’s so—no one has ever fought for him like this. His friends didn’t get so angry, and Sirius always did what Dumbledore said.

_Although maybe Sirius will get over that when he hears about the restrictions Dumbledore wants to put on me…?_

It’s a nice dream, but Harry isn’t about to let it take him over. What matters, at the moment, is that Snape is speaking in a clear, cold voice, and Dumbledore is listening and nodding. Harry looks at him and thinks, _I don’t even know if he actually wants to impose any of those restrictions, or if he just wants to use them to control me somehow._

It makes him frown. He never used to think of Dumbledore as controlling. And then he thought of _himself_ as not important enough to control. But with things like Madam Macmillan talking to him and Daphne deciding to be friends with him when she didn’t care at first, then Harry’s had to change that impression.

Harry waits for a little while, listening as Dumbledore calmly counters everything Snape is bringing up one by one. The broom was a necessary reward to let him be on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The decision to put him on the Quidditch team was supposedly what Professor McGonagall decided to do with him instead of detention, and Dumbledore says that he has no right to interfere in the decisions his professors make about detention.

He looks right at Snape when he says that, like he thinks he could interfere and wants to remind Snape of it. Harry tightens his hands under the table. That was one of the reasons he wanted someone else here, because Dumbledore can threaten Snape and they all know it.

But then Dumbledore says something about the way he awarded points to Harry and Ron and Hermione for going after the Philosopher’s Stone that Harry’s never thought of before. “After all, Severus, you yourself know that Harry must be trained.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Harry blurts out in shock. He thought he had to _hide_ all the training he’s getting from Dumbledore, the Occlumency and the serpent magic and the rest of it, so this is weird. “What do I need to be trained to do?”

Dumbledore at once turns to face him. Harry doesn’t dare look at Snape. “Why, to face Voldemort, of course, Harry. You know he is not dead.”

 _No one should know that better than I do,_ Harry thinks, looking down a little while he remembers his dreams. “But I don’t understand how being given points like that is training, sir.”

“I was considering the obstacle course that you and Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger worked your way through rather than the points themselves,” Dumbledore says. He still has a kind smile when he wants to. “You learned to work together with your friends and think on your feet. Those are qualities that will stand you in good stead as you fight Voldemort, Harry.”

“But—I don’t understand. I thought those obstacles were there to protect the Philosopher’s Stone,” Harry protests. He knows his face is turning red and he thinks he must look pretty stupid, but he has to get it out. “Not to train me.”

“That was my impression, as well,” Snape says, and Harry looks at him and knows he would hide from Snape if he met him in a corridor right now. “Certainly when I _designed_ the riddle and _brewed_ the potions that were my contributions to the task, I thought that was what I was doing.”

“You know there are some of our colleagues who unfortunately do not believe that Voldemort has returned, Severus. I sought to avoid tiresome confrontations that would have done no good in the end.”

“ _Lying_ is your preferred method to win cooperation?”

“Lies of omission, my dear boy, lies of omission.”

Harry interrupts, even though he knows Snape will be angry with him later, because he’s just stuck on the training idea. “Then—I could train when I go back to school? You’d give me dueling lessons and set up other obstacle courses that would help me get better? And people from other Houses could participate in it? And everyone would get points?”

That sounds like a dream. It would make things fair for the debt Harry now he feels he owes the other Slytherins for the unfair points he got at the end of his first year. He didn’t need points. Dumbledore could just have said that he was proud of him, and that would be enough.

And it’s a dream, because Dumbledore is shaking his head, his smile dim. “I am sorry, my dear boy, but when you want to win a war, you do not spread your strategy among a large number of people. I will consent to train you if you wish, but most of it will be magical theory and history, not obstacle courses. And I cannot involve anyone else from Slytherin House.”

“You’re saying that I would have to lie to my friends, too?”

“Again, lies of omission, my dear boy. There are sacrifices to be made during times of war.”

Harry links his hands together and forces down the yell that wants to escape. Of course it wasn’t real training. Or maybe Dumbledore would offer to train just _him_ in Occlumency or something. But Harry is going to share it with his friends even if that happens.

“It is interesting,” Snape says, his voice soft and nonchalant, “that you speak of keeping our strategy secret, yet also speak in front of the wife of an accused Death Eater.”

“He would not be the only one at this table, Severus, were he here,” Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, and Harry admires the way her voice sounds. He wants to sound like that, cool and like he doesn’t care about what he’s saying.

“I know that,” Snape says, and glances again at Dumbledore.

“I did want to speak to Harry privately, but apparently Mrs. Malfoy found fault with that plan.”

“I only asked for tea. What is wrong with tea?”

Harry coughs quickly to hide his grin. Mrs. Malfoy flickers a faint smile at him, and goes back to looking at Dumbledore. “Are there any other lies of omission that you feel like correcting as long as I am here, Headmaster?”

“No, Mrs. Malfoy. I fully accept that the story your husband told the Wizengamot was that he was under the control of the Imperius Curse. But one must consider that something that happened once could happen again.”

For a moment, Mrs. Malfoy’s napkin pauses in patting at her lips. Then she nods and puts it down. “I see, Headmaster. In that case, I will thank Severus and Harry for a delightful afternoon and return home.” She turns and holds out her hand to Harry, like he’s an adult, too. He barely manages to shake it. Professor McGonagall wouldn’t do that, and Mrs. Weasley would just hug him. “Thank you for calling upon me, Harry. I am at your disposal should you need me again.”

Harry blinks a little and manages to say, “Um, all right, Mrs. Malfoy. Thank you for coming.”

Snape bows over her hand and says something Harry can’t hear, but which makes her laugh softly. Then he nods at Harry and asks, “Would you see Mrs. Malfoy to the Floo, Harry?”

Harry knows perfectly well why Snape isn’t about to leave Dumbledore alone with him, but he still gives Snape a slightly betrayed look as he stands up. He wants to stay and hear what they talk about!

Snape looks straight into his eyes and feeds a thought into Harry’s mind, which he’s only done a time or two before. _I will tell you everything._

Harry feels his head rock back on his neck with the shock of it, and he gasps a little. Mrs. Malfoy looks at him in concern, but Harry manages to shake it off with a smile. “Come on, Mrs. Malfoy. I’ll escort you to the Floo.”

She comes, but her mouth is tucked down in a curious little line. She pauses when they reach the fireplace and looks him in the eye. “I meant what I said, Mr. Potter, about coming when you call me.”

 _But what price will you ask?_ Harry just nods to her and smiles. “I know, Mrs. Malfoy.”

She stands for a second like she wants to say something else but can’t think of what it should be. Then she turns and vanishes through the Floo.

And Harry goes to tell Blaise he can come out of his room, a little guilty for leaving him in there for so long. He trusts Snape will tell him— _really_ tell him—what he and Dumbledore ended up talking about.

*

“You will not gain back his trust, Albus. He is never going to be a Gryffindor again, and he is never going to yield to you.”

Albus only smiles at Severus. “I did not come to gain control of Harry. I came to warn him about how he might be regarded given the scars on his face.”

 _Scars he will not have before a year is past. I have sworn it._ Severus’s hands tighten in his robes. He thinks he must look like Harry, who he saw earlier doing the same thing. “Then you did not plan to actually enact the restrictions?”

“I know that I might have no choice if enough parents importune me.”

“ _Drop your masks,_ Albus. I have already told you that I will not yield to you. Neither will Harry.”

“He might see sense if you would stop encouraging him to rebel uselessly, Severus.”

“I want him to _live_. It sounds, Headmaster, like what you want him to do is die being a hero.”

That’s a shot in the dark, as his Muggle father would have said, but from the genuine shock in Albus’s eyes, Severus knows it has gone home. He releases a slow gust of air and prevents himself from reacting. He knew that Albus wanted control, craved it, given how he reacted once Harry once began to slip his chains. But he did not know _this_.

“He is going to live.”

“If you understood everything, Severus, you would know why that is not possible.”

“Are you going to tell me everything?”

Albus is silent.

“Get out of our house,” Severus says. “If I find that you have come here again when I am absent, or attempted to speak to Harry about Fenrir Greyback’s attack on him, I will enact the consequences.”

Albus sighs heavily and stands. “I think you would find it hard to turn Harry against me entirely, Severus.”

Severus says nothing. He watches Albus steadily until he leaves.

It is, he thinks, telling that Albus would assume that the “consequences” are Severus trying to take control of Harry’s mind, when that is precisely what Albus would like to do.

But in some ways, although he thinks himself a mastermind and a manipulator, Albus does not go far enough. He certainly does not go far enough into understanding those designated “Dark” wizards.

It will not be Severus trying to control Harry’s mind that Albus should fear. It will be the silent poison, the crippling dose, the “pain” potion entering his body and wreaking there changes too fast for him to stop.

Severus Snape has only ever had one person to care for. And she is dead, beyond the reach of Albus’s manipulations.

But now he has another. And perhaps not all Slytherins will kill to protect what they care for, but Severus Snape does.

He goes in search of Harry. They should talk.


	9. Lion

“Why did you speak to Dumbledore like that in front of Mrs. Malfoy?”

The question is not the first one that Severus expected, but it makes sense from Harry’s point-of-view. He sits down in front of Harry on a low stool and reaches for another dish of the salve he is spreading on Harry’s scars. Blaise makes a small motion as if he is going to leave his own bedroom. Severus glances at him and bids him stay with that glance.

“Her being an audience was useful in several ways.” Severus beckons, and Harry reluctantly steps up to him. Severus knows why, but doesn’t plan to call attention to the boy’s difficulty with having an adult touch him. He simply spreads on the salve. “For one thing, it limited some of the threats Albus might have made. It also foiled his attempt to get you alone before I arrived.”

“I know. That’s why I Flooed her. But when he was there?”

“Someone besides ourselves should know certain truths about Albus.” Severus met Harry’s eyes and held them until Harry blinked. “I would not put it past Albus to use _Obliviate_.”

“ _What_?” Blaise blurts, and then wilts before Severus can even turn to look at him. “I mean, I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I never imagined the Headmaster would do that.”

“I do not think he has reached that level of desperation yet.” The salve is fully on. Severus places the dish back on the table next to him and lays the back of his hand on Harry’s forehead. No fever. Yes, the sickness has lasted a much shorter time than it would usually for someone scarred by a werewolf, and Severus attributes that entirely to his potions and the careful way he has been treating Harry. “But I also think that he is heading there.”

“I never thought of that.” Harry’s face is pale as he stands there for a second, his hands twitching behind his back. “But, sir, isn’t she just going to go home and tell Mr. Malfoy that you’re not loyal to Voldemort anymore?”

“My caring for you has been in the _papers_ , Harry. I consider that a secret no longer.”

“Okay. But—I don’t want you in any danger.”

“I have taken on a position fraught with danger, and done so willingly. Do you remember what Healer Lyndell has said about attempts not to take care of everyone else, to your own detriment?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry sags back a little. “Okay. So what do we do now?”

“I wish to know your reasoning for Flooing Mrs. Malfoy, instead of someone else. But Harry?” Severus waits until the boy’s wary eyes are fixed on his face again, and then reaches out and grips Harry’s shoulder, holding him still. He doesn’t want Harry to make any mistake about this. “I am incredibly proud of you. You did what needed to be done, and you should never doubt that.”

Harry’s eyes slip closed for a second as if absorbing a blow. Then again, how many times have adults spoken words of praise to him? Not enough.

“Everyone else I could think of either doesn’t have a Floo, or isn’t loyal to me, or is loyal to Dumbledore. I didn’t want someone who would think it was fine to go off and make tea and leave me alone with him.”

“The way the Weasleys might have, and Black.” Severus nods. In truth, he is no longer as sure about Black as he was, but he trusts Lupin more.

_I trust the werewolf who nearly killed me more than I trust the human one._

But life has twisted in enough strange ways since Harry was Sorted into Slytherin that Severus no longer spends much time brooding on those twists. Instead, he says, “I think that you will need to keep your wavering faith in Albus concealed.”

“Even from Sirius and Remus?”

“Yes, until we can be sure of them. It is a positive sign that they have not told you that Albus is the one you should trust and live with, which I somewhat expected after the werewolf attack. They could easily say that Hogwarts is safer than any house, and you should go there. But they did not.”

Severus does have a growing hope that those two might put loyalty to Harry above loyalty to Albus, but he will not yet use that hope as a plank over an abyss. Wait, and see what they do when they have the choice. And what they do not do.

“All right,” Harry says. He turns and looks at Blaise. “Can you keep the secret, too?”

Severus snorts. When he looks at Blaise, he already knows what he will see: a glowing face and eyes. Some of his Slytherins find secrets more exciting than the height of battle or any Dark spells. Blaise is one of them.

“Of _course_ I can! It’s mad that the Headmaster thinks he can control you anyway, and that he might use a Memory Charm on you! But I don’t have that much contact with him. I can keep it behind my shields.”

“We will increase the work on your Occlumency, Mr. Zabini.”

Blaise doesn’t cower, but looks up proudly. “Of course, sir. I don’t want to betray Harry, but I know that I might not have a choice if my shields are weak and the Headmaster can read something from my head. So the only choice is not to be weak.”

 _The only choice any of us have,_ Severus thinks, and lays a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I am proud of you,” he says again.

Harry’s eyes are brilliant for a different reason than Blaise’s.

*

“ _I do not like the claiming mark of the wolf on your face._ ”

Harry rolls his eyes. He had no idea how the Speakers would react to his werewolf scars, but he knows they were displeased when Professor Snape canceled his lessons in serpent magic last week. And he ought to have known it would be like this. The Speakers are possessive, and already unhappy that Harry wouldn’t come to their world to learn from them.

“ _In our world, we would have kept you safe from the wolf attack_ ,” Asheren says, on cue.

“But there are lots of reasons that I couldn’t go to your world, and I don’t want you to bring them up again,” Harry says, which he hopes will stop that nonsense. “Now, are the scars going to get in the way when I cast serpent spells?”

Asheren darts his head back and forth as if someone has tried to slap him. “ _Why would they_?”

Harry relaxes. Snape did try to tell him that werewolf wounds don’t have an effect on someone’s ability to cast spells, but Harry found a stupid book in the library that said they did. At least he knows serpent magic won’t be affected. “All right.” He turns to face the conjured golden krait that has been waiting in a corner of the library since he and Asheren started this conversation. “ _Come to me_.”

The krait moves towards him in an undulating, graceful motion. “ _You are supposed to be doing more than simply commanding it,_ ” Asheren notes.

Harry ignores him, because he knows that, but he wanted to try something else with this snake. “ _Stop there_ ,” he says, when the krait is about a meter from him, and the krait halts and waits. Then Harry swallows and moves his wand in a complicated, careful tracing, while he thinks the spell he wants in Parseltongue as hard as he can.

He doesn’t want to say it aloud, in case it doesn’t work and Asheren teases him about it.

“ _What are you doing_?”

The magic seems to hesitate in Harry’s throat for an instant, blocked, and then it races out and through his wand. The shapes in the air become real as the krait rears in surprise, and then golden, scaled wings burst from its back. The krait stares at Harry, but when Harry holds out his hand and tells it to come to him again, it beats its wings and rises into the air. The next second, it’s wrapped around his wrist, waiting.

“ _You were not supposed to do that._ ”

“I know. But isn’t he handsome?” Harry smiles at the krait, which seems to understand his intentions even if it doesn’t understand English. It rears up and spreads its wings, showing off. Harry scratches it under the chin.

“ _You are not supposed to be able to conjure a cloud of winged serpents. No one can do that unless they call a serpent that is already winged.”_

“ _But I am_ ,” Harry answers, and it isn’t until Asheren looks pleased that he realizes he used Parseltongue. He was looking directly at the krait, which is why. He scowls and carefully continues in English. “I can do that, and it’s going to be necessary, if I want to use this kind of magic in battle. Lyassa said it could be useful for foretelling the future and spying. But I need it to be useful for more than that.”

“ _You are truly determined to destroy this corrupt Parselmouth._ ”

“Everyone else thinks I have to.”

Asheren only sways thoughtfully instead of answering. Harry snorts. He knows the Speakers well enough by now to know when he _won’t_ get an answer. He puts the krait on the floor and goes back to practicing some of the “ordinary” magic that Asheren tells him to.

But at least it seems that, as far as the Speakers are concerned, the fact that Greyback mauled him isn’t a problem.

*

“Happy birthday, Harry!”

Harry stares with an open mouth at the cake on the table and the presents all around it. Ron watches him in concern. Did he think people wouldn’t want to come over and celebrate his birthday after Greyback clawed him? That’s ridiculous. But it might be the kind of thing Harry would think, Ron realizes, as he catches Hermione’s eye.

But the next instant, Harry grins and bounds down the stairs, rushing over to hug Hermione and clap Ron on the shoulder, then turn around to face the rest of his Slytherin friends. “I’d forgotten it was my birthday. Thanks, you lot.”

Ron frowns at Harry when he can’t see because he has his back turned. Harry has _definitely_ been studying too hard. Ron always knows when his birthday is, even if he doesn’t get to celebrate it with his full family because he’s always at Hogwarts in the last few years.

But Harry gratefully eats the cake and tells Ron to say thanks to his Mum, and opens the presents that Ron and Hermione and Nott and Zabini and Malfoy and Lovegood and Greengrass and Neville got him. That includes the broomstick-servicing kit Ron found for him, a magical planner that Hermione bought and immediately tries to demonstrate, a pair of shining dragonhide gloves from Nott, a gleaming black-silver cloak from Zabini (at least it isn’t green, is all Ron can say for it), an enchanted mirror from Malfoy, a string of—things—that look like half-chewed matchsticks from Lovegood, a new pair of golden glasses-frames from Greengrass that Harry can put his old lenses in, and a small flowering plant from Neville. Neville blushes when Harry opens the little pot the plant is in.

“The plant releases a sweeter scent when you need to sleep,” Neville explains hesitantly. “It can let you relax and go to sleep when you’re worried. About exams, for instance.”

“Thanks, Neville,” Harry says, and puts the plant gently aside. At least its flowers are red and gold, Ron thinks, not pink or something.

Snape and Sirius and Remus all got him books, which seem to be about Defense and Occlumency from what Ron can see. Snape also got Harry some new shirts and trousers and robes, which Harry frowns at before he frowns at Snape.

Snape only raises an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten that it is my prerogative as your guardian to buy clothes for you?” he murmurs, and Harry blushes and apologizes. But it’s a strange thing to forget, Ron thinks.

Then he shakes his head. He isn’t Harry. Harry’s had a _really_ strange life. One that Ron’s glad he doesn’t have, but he’s also glad that he can share some of it.

There’s one more gift sitting near the bottom of the pile when everything else has been opened. Harry slowly undoes the wrapping, which Ron thinks looks like golden scales. And then he leaps back when a winged _snake_ flies out of the wrapping and zooms around the dining room twice before it ties itself around Harry’s arm.

“What variety of serpent is that?” Snape has a calm voice, but his wand is also aimed. Ron is glad that he’s not the only one who’s freaked out by that thing.

“I conjured it the other day in my lessons,” Harry mutters, frowning at the winged snake. “I thought it went away. I mean, that my teacher took it with him.” He reaches out and traces the nearest wing of the snake, then hisses a question at it.

Ron shudders, then stops when he catches Malfoy’s eye. Malfoy behaves politely enough when they’re in a big group like this, but Ron can feel every time Malfoy’s on the _verge_ of making fun of him. He’s not going to give the great git fuel.

The snake hisses back. Harry looks up and frowns at Snape and then Sirius and Remus and then everyone else. “It says that it’s been sent to stay with me. That because I got scarred by a wolf, I wasn’t defended well enough.”

“It was an _accident_!” Sirius sounds like he’s said that a hundred times before. “It doesn’t mean that anyone else can get through the wards!”

“Harry will still be remaining here for the near future.”

“I know that, Sn—”

“You promised that there would be no arguing on my birthday. That’s why I didn’t ask for more gifts. Remember?”

Snape and Sirius stand glaring at each other for a second, but then, they both nod, and Sirius puts his wand away. Snape doesn’t. “How sure are you that you can trust that creature, Harry?”

“I’m as sure as I can be without being in its mind and reading it,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “I mean, it’ll obey me because I’m a Parselmouth, and the ones who sent it said that it’s to guard me, too. I was just surprised because I thought all the conjured serpents faded away after a while. But maybe they did something to this one so that it can stay with me.”

“I do think that it’s a good idea to have a poisonous creature always with Harry,” Nott says, his face pleasant and bland in that creepy way he has. “I would have got him a pet snake myself, but I was unsure how it would be accepted.” He looks at Sirius and Remus instead of Snape.

“Poisonous?” Hermione looks worried. “Harry, are you sure—”

“I know that the rules say that we can only have a cat or an owl or a toad, but I don’t think it’s coming off.” Harry holds his arm up and shakes it. The snake is gripping it too tightly to be pried off, Ron realizes. “And he’ll obey me. If I tell him not to bite anyone, not even to show that he has venom, then he’ll listen.”

“What kind of snake is it? I mean, when it doesn’t have wings?”

“A krait, Daphne.” Nott sounds like he thinks she’s stupid for having to be told. She bristles at him, and starts a quiet conversation that’s probably an argument. Ron, though, is too busy eyeing the snake warily to listen. He read some about kraits in parts of their Potions book that talked about venom as a Potions ingredient. Krait venom is deadly.

“I can _control_ it,” Harry insists, seeing where Ron is looking. “I promise that they wouldn’t have got me a gift I was incapable of controlling!”

“It’s not that, mate,” Ron says, and then tries to look more apologetic when Harry glares at him harder. “It’s just that it’s a _snake_. Snakes are kind of creepy.”

“And somehow you maintain your friendship with Harry despite the serpent crest on his robes,” Zabini mutters.

Ron turns around to scowl at Zabini, too. “I’m just uneasy around _literal_ snakes, Zabini. Not around the rest of you. _Don’t say anything, Malfoy_.”

“Anyway,” Harry says hastily, “I think we should go back to the party. We haven’t even eaten that much of the cake yet.” And he picks up the knife at the same moment as Hermione grabs Ron and drags him into the next room.

“Harry needs us to be friends with his friends,” she tells Ron, hands on her hips and her eyes blazing. “Don’t start up with that sort of thing about slimy snakes, all right?”

“I was being fine. _They’re_ being gits. And they’ll never act like we’re as good as them, admit it, Hermione.”

“Well, I know that none of them have called me a Mudblood since they started spending time with Harry. Even Malfoy. And if they are gits who will act like we’re never as good as them, then we need to be _better_. Starting with not antagonizing them.”

Ron hesitates. Then he nods. He knows she’s right, and it’s good to realize that Hermione isn’t taking all of this with calm grace, either. She still gives the winged krait on Harry’s arm a worried look as they go back into the dining room.

But the rest of the party goes well, and when Harry announces that he’s naming the krait Lion, there’s more than one sour Slytherin face, which reassures Ron that at least they’re not getting everything their own way. He doesn’t need everything _his_ way, either. Just some things.


	10. Back to School

Harry stands with Lion coiled on his shoulder, ignoring the crowd washing around him and muttering and staring and whispering words they apparently think he can’t hear. He will put up with this. Snape said they could Floo directly to Hogwarts from their house. Harry didn’t want to. He wanted to ride the Hogwarts Express with his friends.

In fact, he still does. He just has to ignore the way that everyone else makes him want to tighten his shoulders and forget about this plan. He smiles in relief as he sees Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins making their way through the crowd, with Mrs. Weasley right behind them.

“How was the month since your birthday, mate?” Ron thumps Harry companionably on the shoulder. “Shame you couldn’t come to the Quidditch World Cup.”

Harry grimaces. “I know.” He wanted to go, but he got a death threat by post the day before, from someone who signed themselves “A Hater of Werewolves.” Snape promptly put the house behind wards so thick that the Speakers couldn’t get through the next day. After that, he was, um, _not amenable_ to the thought of Harry going somewhere with flocks of strangers.

“You did hear about the Dark Mark and the Death Eaters?” Ron lets his voice sink while his eyes dart suspiciously around.

“It was all anyone talked about in our house for the next day, Ron.”

“Right. Um. Listen, mate. Snape sent us this letter. Me and Hermione, anyway. I don’t know about the Slytherins.” Ron holds out a parchment that looks as if it was rolled up into a smooth scroll and then smashed flat. “Can you tell him that we’re going to try, but we can’t promise?”

Harry takes the scroll warily, wondering what Snape wanted them to promise. That they would do better at Potions? That they would keep Harry from taking risks?

It turns out to be worse than that.

_Dear Mr. Weasley,_

_You will refrain from doing anything that will endanger Mr. Potter again, or I cannot speak to the possibility of you making it to the end of the year._

There’s nothing hard around to beat his head against. _Snape’s head would be favorite,_ Harry thinks darkly, and hands the parchment back to Ron. “I didn’t know about it. I’m going to tell him to stop being stupid.”

“You had a question, Harry?”

That’s Snape’s smooth voice, right behind him. For once, Harry is too angry to care if it’s deep and warning of trouble. He turns around and glares straight at him. “Yes, _sir._ How dare you threaten my friends and try to make them responsible for my safety?”

“Harry, mate, it’s not a big—”

“You didn’t know if that was all he said to anyone else, though,” Harry says, his voice sharp and brittle as poisoned glass. He doesn’t take his eyes from Snape. A rage he doesn’t think he’s ever felt is thundering through him, because Snape _shouldn’t have messed up like this._ Harry trusted an adult, and look where it’s got him. “And that sounded like threatening your life to _me._ ”

“I am encouraging them to refrain from mysterious investigations and quests that they do not tell an adult about. That is all.”

Harry wants to tell Snape about the times that he _did_ try to tell someone about things, and they disbelieved him or patted him on the head and told him to go play outside. But he knows that what would come out if he opened his mouth would just be incoherent screaming. He settles for shaking his head and walking towards the train.

This summer was actually fine. Actually _fun_ in some ways. Now it’s going to end on a sour note because Snape just has to try to make his friends responsible for things they’re not responsible for.

“I require a moment of your attention, Harry.”

Harry stops walking and nods to Ron, who’s staring at him uneasily. “Why don’t you get on the train, Ron?”

“Mate, if you need me to stay—”

“Harry, what Professor Snape asked me wasn’t that bad.” Hermione bustles up next to them, looking worriedly back and forth between Snape and Harry as if she thinks one of them is going to explode into flames any minute. Harry’s thinking about it. “He just asked me to tell him if I find something in the library or the school that we would usually go investigate on our own.”

“I would have told him. He didn’t need to pressure you into it.”

“I don’t mind,” Hermione says softly. She looks small, and Harry tries to find a smile for her, but it’s hard.

“I know, but—” It’s all stuff that he can’t say in front of them, things that he told Healer Lyndell some of during the last fortnight and that he now wishes he could take back. It’s all about how he trusted Snape and now he’s been proven wrong, _again_ , because Snape isn’t trustworthy, and he feels like ten kinds of idiot. It’s all about how he gave Snape a chance and he broke it, and it’s Harry’s fault that his friends got dragged into it.

But he can’t say it that openly to them, and not in front of this staring, whispering crowd, so he just gives them both a tight smile and says, “I’ll see you in a compartment,” and turns to face Snape.

*

Severus lifts a privacy ward around them both, eyes narrowed as he studies Harry’s face. This does not look like the anger that Harry expressed over the summer after sessions with his Mind-Healer, or when the first letters began to appear in the _Daily Prophet_ about parents wanting him banned from Hogwarts in case he infects their precious spawn with lycanthropy. This is deep-seated, cold, burning anger.

This is door-shutting anger.

And Severus does not understand what he has done wrong.

“I was not pressuring your friends. I was telling them not to encourage you to take risks.”

“You were threatening them. And you were using them to _spy_ on me.”

Severus thinks he understands now. This would be a pressure point, after what the Dursleys did to Harry. He forces himself to step back from his ward and not unleash the furious shout that he can feel building in his throat.

“I did not mean to do that, either,” he finally says. “I only meant to warn them that I will not tolerate them lying to me and dragging you along on their quests.”

“I was the one who dragged _them_ along!” Harry shouts. Then he shuts his eyes and stands there, breathing evenly. Severus wonders for a moment if this is something Healer Lyndell taught him to do, and then sees the yellow krait creeping down Harry’s arm. Harry is breathing like that to soothe Lion and keep him from attacking.

 _Lion._ Still a ridiculous name, and nothing will ever make Severus think otherwise.

“I don’t want you to act as though I’m some doll and I’m about to break because of what my friends do.” Harry’s voice is soft and blank, much like the expression on his face. He opens his eyes and studies Severus. Then he nods and asks, “Can you accept that I was the one who went down into the Chamber of Secrets and told my friends that we had to go after the Stone?”

“I will be—satisfied if something like that does not happen this year.”

“Can you accept that I was the one who instigated it?” Harry sounds a little more insistent now. “You didn’t have any trouble believing that until I was your ward.”

Severus folds his arms. He knows that the moment is speeding past them, that soon the Hogwarts Express will leave, and that he does not want this tension hovering between them when he and Harry see each other at Hogwarts. If nothing else, Albus would be quick to sense it and take advantage of it.

But still, he cannot commit himself to speaking the words that would have come so easily last year, either.

“Don’t go to extremes,” Harry whispers, and Severus is now sure that he’s consciously echoing words that Healer Lyndell spoke to him. She said them to Severus, too. “Just because you care about me now, that doesn’t mean that I’m a pure innocent and all of my friends are the troublemakers. Don’t change the past.”

Severus grinds his teeth hard enough into each other that he can feel an ache blossoming down his jaw as if someone has punched him there. Now that Harry is pointing it out, he can see what he was doing. And in truth, he has no wish to alienate Harry from his friends.

He is simply so— _Gryffindorish_ about them sometimes. And about protecting them from harm.

“I will not be angry unless they do pull you into their insane quests,” he says finally. “And I will not write them any more letters.”

Harry stares at him as if trying to see past a barrier into his soul. Then he nods once, sharply, and steps forwards with his hand held out.

“Then we can shake on it and say that’s enough,” he said.

Severus shakes his hand, all the time frowning. He would have liked to embrace Harry, but perhaps he should not have counted on that in the middle of a train station. And perhaps Harry is not in the state of mind where he would welcome it anyway.

But this feels impersonal.

Before Severus can say anything else, Harry gives him one more smile that pulls the faint scars at the corner of his mouth, and then turns and climbs into the train. Weasley and Granger look out past him, giving Severus furtive looks. Granger does nod to him, but that smacks more of trouble than anything.

Severus watches the train depart, carrying both Harry and Blaise, before he turns and goes back to the house to pack. He will see Harry at Hogwarts that night for the Sorting Feast. They will not be parted for long.

But this feels more final than it should be.

*

Theo studies the changes in Harry as they all crowd into one compartment, Harry and his Gryffindor friends and Theo and Blaise and Draco and Daphne. There are other members of their study group wandering in and out at times, but Gryffindors and Slytherins form the core of this particular gathering.

Harry is sitting with his back straighter than he used to, and Theo supposes Professor Snape might have worked with him on proper posture. He has those scars from the werewolf attack, but they have faded more than Theo thought possible, which makes the stories in the papers all the more irritating. He has Lion on his shoulder and the clockwork snake that Theo’s father made for him on the other. He smiles more than he laughs, and does both more than he talks.

Theo nods slowly. Harry is changing into someone more cautious, someone who weighs his words and wears his weapons more openly. Theo thinks it was inevitable, with all the enemies who have made a business of dashing after Harry. He couldn’t remain defenseless and naïve forever.

But part of Theo still mourns. He would have liked to think that Harry _could_ remain innocent and trust his friends and guardians to protect him.

Harry’s gaze meets his, and Harry narrows his eyes a little. Then he motions with his head towards the compartment door. Theo stands and follows him obediently, ignoring the way everyone watches them. If Harry wants to have a private discussion, then Theo isn’t going to talk him out of it.

When they’re in the corridor, Harry hisses softly, and waves his wand once. Conjured serpents appear all around them, filling the walls. They look like rune-pictures more than anything real. Theo blinks and glances at Harry.

“Some magic that the Speakers taught me. They’ll guard our conversation and keep anyone from overhearing it.” Harry swallows some air. Then he says, “You keep looking as though you’re going to give me advice or tell me something awful. What is it?”

“I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking of how much you’ve changed.”

“Into what?”

From the sound of it, Harry thinks Theo is about to say that he’s turning evil or turning into Voldemort. Theo tries to soften his face as much as he can, although that’s not an easy thing to do when he grew up with his father the way he did. “Into a leader. Harder. Colder. But that’s what you need to be, when you have that many people around you who want to harm you.”

“Is your father one of them?”

Theo shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know. He barely discussed anything with me this summer. He found out that I’d taken revenge on him, and he intends to take revenge on _me_. He tried to harm me through the house-elves and through his beasts and through potions in my food. Nothing worked,” he adds hastily, because Harry looks almost ready to send Lion after his father. “But I don’t think that he supports Voldemort. I just don’t know if he supports _you_.”

“Right, there’s a difference.” Harry goes back to his pose of thinking deeply about things. “Well, do you think that it might be better if we pretend that we had an argument and you act distant towards me?”

“ _No_.”

Harry blinks. “I didn’t mean—I would tell everyone in our study group that it wasn’t real, Theo. And Professor Snape, of course. You wouldn’t get in trouble for it.”

“If you told that many people, then you might as well tell my father right away,” Theo snaps. “That many people can’t keep a secret. No, Harry. I want to stand by you. And I don’t care what my father thinks. I have places to go if he becomes unreasonable.”

“It sounds to me like he’s pretty bloody unreasonable already!”

Theo takes a step back from the force in Harry’s voice. “Nothing I can’t handle. I don’t want you to intervene for me.”

“Tell me if it gets bad enough that I need to.”

“I can’t lie to you about that,” Theo agrees, although that’s less because he thinks Harry would know and more because he knows it would destroy their friendship if he tried. He’s sacrificed too much for this. He wants to keep the place he fought for at Harry’s side. “Okay. I’ll tell you if it gets worse.”

Harry softens again and claps his shoulder as he dismisses the snakes and passes by Theo to reenter the compartment. “Thanks, Theo. No one should have to fight alone.”

 _Except you, the way you act sometimes,_ Theo thinks, and shakes his head as he follows Harry into the compartment. _It’s as much my right to watch out for you and protect you as it is yours to watch out for and protect me._

*

“I have an announcement that I hope will compensate you for the loss of Quidditch.”

Albus speaks carefully, raising his voice when he needs to be heard over the groans and shouts that fill the Great Hall. His gaze is moving constantly, but he has a lingering, floating invisible eyeball focused on the Slytherin table.

Young Harry looks more recovered from the werewolf attack than Albus would have thought he could the day he saw him in Severus’s house. His face seems hardly scarred at all, although more thoughtful and grim than before. Albus dislikes the implication of the winged snake on his shoulder, but there is an old provision in the school’s charter that gives a Parselmouth the right to have such a pet. Blast Salazar Slytherin’s foresight, anyway.

Albus smiles, then, and moves his attention back to his real eyes from the hovering spy-eye. “I speak of the Tri-wizard Tournament. It has been resurrected to promote cooperation between Europe’s magical schools. Since it last happened, the tasks have been made safer, and the prize is a thousand Galleons and eternal glory…”

He is quick enough to catch the dark glance that Severus sends at his ward, as if warning Harry that he should stay out of the mainstream of the Tournament altogether.

And the dark one he gets back.

There is tension here. There is a disagreement here that he can exploit. It might not be enough to get Harry all the way back under his control or remove Severus’s guardianship, but on the other hand, Albus is a past master at using guilt and subtle hints where others would have to employ legal or quasi-legal means.

He is smiling as he sits down to eat, smiling despite all the headaches that the Tournament is already giving him—from dealing with Madame Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff to figuring out how the other schools will arrive—and the fact that he has not heard at all from Remus, and the man’s silent disquiets Albus.

This will work out. Things are already sliding back onto the track he wishes them to be on.


	11. Hierarchy

“You think you’re that special just because you can use Parseltongue, is that it?”

Harry sighs and turns around. He hoped the challenges from within Slytherin House would end because Flint finally graduated, but it doesn’t seem so. There’s a large seventh-year he doesn’t know in front of him, one with a broken nose and the kind of pointy face that Draco doesn’t seem to have these days.

“Who are you?” Harry clenches his shoulder so that Lion will know not to crawl down it. Harry is getting better at communicating with him in things other than just Parseltongue.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Mudblood.”

Harry breathes to ease the anger. “Yes, I would. That’s why I asked.”

The boy stares at him blankly. The Slytherins in the common room, who are mostly fifth-years, stir a little. Harry thinks that things could go either way at this point, and he honestly doesn’t know who the majority of his Housemates would side with.

“His name’s Justice Pucey,” Blaise says from behind Harry, and for once, Harry isn’t annoyed by his friends’ habit of tracking him all over the place. “Related to our glorious Adrian. And named for a virtue that I don’t think he has much of.” He halts next to Harry, and smiles at Pucey. “Don’t you think so, Justice?”

“ _I_ don’t think so,” Theo says, and materializes on Harry’s other side. “Although I understand that you weren’t asking me.”

“Absolutely not,” Daphne says, stretching as she wanders towards them. “No one with a sense of justice would be as perky as he is this early in the morning.”

“And most people would understand what it means to call someone with Harry’s powers, both magical and political, a Mudblood.” That’s Draco, who’s standing next to Theo now and giving a smile at Pucey that actually makes him take a step back.

Pucey only looks back and forth between them. Harry waits. He has no idea why Pucey chose to approach him like this, and right now. Hatred or something his family told him, if they serve Voldemort? Or just stupidity? It could be almost anything.

“This isn’t over,” Pucey finally says, and then he turns and leaves through the common room door. Harry shakes his head and relaxes his shoulder under Lion so that he’ll know it’s okay to climb down if he wants.

“What was _that_ all about?” Pansy is staring back and forth as though she doesn’t know what to make of any of them. Behind her, Millicent is silent, a frown on her face as she strokes the cat in her arms.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, and then walks out of the common room door himself, after a silent count of thirty to make it less likely that he’ll run into Pucey. Draco and Daphne and Theo and Blaise all come with him, which was expected, but Pansy runs out and catches up to him.

“If you’re making some kind of power play in Slytherin, Potter—”

“Not consciously. I don’t know what Pucey wanted. But he called me a Mudblood, so he was probably hoping I’d react.”

“What would you have done if no one else had shown up to guard you?” Pansy looks at Draco as though she thinks he’s under some sort of spell and will snap out of it. Draco ignores her.

“Asked some of the fifth-years to find out what his name is. Then I would have asked him what his problem is.”

Pansy closes her eyes and stops walking for a second. Harry and the others keep going. Pansy catches up with them again. Millicent is behind her, still listening, her arms still around her cat. “But you can’t just do it like that! You can’t get an alliance with the older and more powerful Slytherins if you don’t know who they are and what they mean!”

“Why would I want an alliance with someone who calls me Mudblood and would probably call me worse if I didn’t have allies?”

Pansy groans to herself and sweeps past them on her way to the Great Hall. For an instant, Harry thinks Millicent is going to say something, but in the end, she shakes her head and follows Pansy.

“Pansy thinks you’re a political moron,” Draco informs him helpfully.

“Yes, thank you, your name should be Obvious Malfoy,” Harry snaps at him. He sighs when he sees the way Draco blinks. “Sorry, I’m irritated with Snape and it’s spilling over. But I still won’t do what Pansy thinks I should. I made certain rules for the people who should be part of the study group. Making friends or allies with someone like Pucey who just throws blood prejudice around is stupid.”

“Maybe not with him specifically,” Theo murmurs. “But there are lots of people teetering on the edge of joining Voldemort who might not join him if they were offered a viable alternative.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. He knows that he isn’t a political genius. But there are some things that he isn’t going to compromise. What could he even _offer_ people who think Voldemort is a good idea? The people in his study group don’t think that way. He keeps walking, one hand rising up when Lion spreads his wings and snaps at a fly in the air.

“No one said anything about him last night, did you notice?”

Harry blinks for a second, then realizes Draco is talking about Lion and not him. “Yeah, I thought it was unusual, but I was just glad that they weren’t demanding I get rid of him or something.”

Draco chortles. “Get _rid_ of him? Of course not, Harry. They’re impressed by him. I think that’s one reason Pucey confronted you in that clumsy way this morning. He doesn’t know what you stand for. His parents have told him you’re the enemy, and probably the rest of his family, but then you’re a Parselmouth and you have an impressive snake on your shoulder. I think that’s why he spoke about your Parseltongue specifically. He wanted to see how you would react.”

Harry just shakes his head. He doesn’t think he can go on being everything to the Slytherin students, a Parselmouth and someone they need to appease and the Boy-Who-Lived from a rival House and...who knows what else. “Well, he’s going to be disappointed that I’m not about to substitute for Voldemort, I suppose.”

“There are people who would find what you offer more attractive,” Theo says, in that neutral voice that he uses when he wants to be most annoying.

Harry closes his eyes and reminds himself that it’s only seven-thirty in the morning, and if he uses up all his annoyance now, then he won’t have it when he needs it. “I know. But I can’t prioritize saving them. Unless they actually come to me and want to be part of my study group or something.”

He can feel Theo and Blaise exchanging glances behind his back. He knows they would stop if he said something about it. He doesn’t say anything about it.

“Let’s go to breakfast,” Harry says, and puts aside the conversation and any attempts to restart it again firmly. He concentrates on making sure that he gets enough to eat, that Lion gets enough to eat, and that Luna isn’t being bulled at the Ravenclaw table. That’s what he’s doing for right now.

*

Remus crouches down and sniffs carefully at the tracks that spiral around the mouth of a large cave. It would be hard to find even normally, but someone has spelled vines and roots to grow down across the mouth. Remus wouldn’t know it was here if not for his spectacular nose.

And his familiarity with Greyback’s scent, by now.

He knows that Greyback spent a considerable amount of time here, and also that he hasn’t been near the cave in a week. The other scents around the cave would raise all the hair on his back if he was a wolf, but he can’t identify them. One is thick and heavy and resembles aconite, but isn’t exactly it. And one smells a little like earth after a lightning strike, but that isn’t it, either. Remus has searched carefully. He knows he would have found a place where a fire burned if there was one. There isn’t.

The cave’s entrance sparkles with wards just behind the plants, some of them actually attached to the delicate rootlets and tendrils. Moving them will alert Greyback, or possibly Voldemort. Remus thinks he’s ready for the battle with Greyback, but not both of them.

He does have a method to move the roots so he can look into the cave even if he can’t actually enter it, though.

Remus twists his wand and murmurs the charm that James came up with in sixth year and thought was hilarious for one day, until Sirius hit him over the head with the realization that if he could see through girls’ clothing, he could _also_ see through boys’. “ _Oculi hyali._ ”

The air ripples in a way that Remus has learned to ignore; he never used the charm to peer through people’s clothes, but he’s cast it often enough to learn when an enemy was waiting out of sight or where food might be hidden. The grass softens and blurs in his sight until it looks like a cascade of rain, then vanishes. Remus studies the inside of the cave thus revealed.

A huge cauldron, perhaps the one from the dreams that Harry mentioned having where he saw Greyback casting the Confundus Charm over and over again on a cauldron. There’s also a thick carpet, or at least it looks like one, made of grass woven over a cloth of some kind. There’s a set of human fingerbones, and another set that probably come from thighs. There’s a huge glass cup, and Remus flinches as he looks at it. It’s a two-handled cup like the kind that sometimes gets handed around at weddings, and there’s a muddy aura swimming around it that makes Remus want to vomit.

Remus carefully scans all of them. But none of them really tells him anything. He can’t tell what kinds of liquid the cup might have held from the aura, even though it feels like he _should_ be able to. And he’s fairly sure that the grass is sewn onto a backing of human skin, but that doesn’t tell him what Greyback and Voldemort intend to _do_ with it.

A low sound comes out of the tall grass to his left. Greyback and Voldemort might have left guardians on the cave other than wards.

Remus lightly casts the net of spells that he prepared before he left Sirius’s house, the end of one triggering the other, and Apparates. The first spell, to disturb the earth and erase his footprints, will catalyze the next, to erase his scent, and then comes the third, which will hide all trace of magic he performed at the site, including the Apparition.

Remus is becoming wiser in his old age. He’s reminded of that again when he returns to his own bedroom and looks at the locked drawer his letter to Albus about Harry is waiting in.

He hasn’t sent it, and now he never will. But he doesn’t intend to rip it up, either. Keep it for now. It may be useful in the future.

*

“See me after class, Potter.”

“Sir.” Harry keeps his voice nice and polite and neutral as he turns and packs away his Potions supplies. Lion shifts on his shoulder and hisses a soft question. Harry hisses back, “ _It’s all right_ ,” ignoring how half the Gryffindors in the class flinch.

It’s still only half. Last year it would have been all of them except Ron and Hermione.

Hermione acts as if she wants to hover behind and wait for him, but Snape’s face is as closed as the door he shuts in their faces. Harry nods his reassurance and turns around, arms folded. Lion curls tightly around his neck, watching, waiting.

“I believe you misunderstood my intent when I sent those letters to your friends,” Snape says. His voice is still closed, along with his face. He watches Harry as if he thinks he’ll bolt in some random direction and Snape will have to stop him.

Harry gives him as small and neutral a smile as he can, and asks, “What was your intent, sir?”

“To make sure that they knew I would not tolerate investigations into the dangers like the ones they initiated in past years.”

“That makes it sound like I was their helpless pawn. I _never_ was, sir. I participated in those ‘investigations’ just as much as anyone else did. I went down to the Chamber of Secrets and I went to help retrieve the Stone. I confronted Sirius on my own last year, and that’s not something Ron or Hermione wanted me to do. And I notice that you didn’t send any letters to my Slytherin friends.”

Snape struggles in silence for a moment, while Harry watches him and doesn’t sympathize. Then he says, “They did not get you into danger in the same way.”

“Then you’re only looking at House prejudice, and nothing else,” Harry says, and sighs. It was nice to believe that he and Snape had got past that during the summer, but maybe Snape can only get past it until the moment when he saw Gryffindors other than Harry walking around in red and gold. “Can I go now, sir?”

“I want to be sure that you will be safe.”

The desperate tone in Snape’s voice makes Harry pause for a moment. But then he shakes his head. “I really, really don’t go looking for trouble, sir. I only jump in when I can see that no one else is going to do it and someone needs to be protected. I can’t let someone die because I wanted to stay safe.”

“None of your _peers_ thought they needed to go to the Chamber of Secrets!”

“Ron did.”

“That does not count. His little sister was trapped there. But _you_ had no reason to be there.”

Harry really wants to bang his head against something, but there’s nothing in a convenient distance. He speaks slowly. “If it’s all right for Ron to go because Ginny is his sister, then it’s all right for me to go because they’re my friends. It’s all right for children to go or it’s not. Make up your bloody mind.”

Snape narrows his eyes, and Harry flinches. But he stands tall. If Snape wants to put him in detention for the language or take points, he can do that. But Harry remembers what Healer Lyndell said.

Snape can never be a good guardian if Harry is afraid of him.

“Let me say, then,” Snape mutters, his voice caught on the edge of what sounds like a snarl, “that I do not _care_ as much if other children go. I care that you don’t.”

Harry closes his eyes.

So he knew this, but it does sound differently when it’s put into words.

“I understand that, sir,” Harry manages to say. There’s too much all mixed up in his mind, understanding and anger and the desire to protect his friends from Snape and the desire to argue and Healer Lyndell’s words and the lessons from the Speakers and how Snape protected him from Dumbledore this summer. It’s all mixed up. “But _I_ care about my friends. So don’t send threats to them unless you want me to get upset. It’s something that’s pretty simple to understand when you think about it.”

“I only want some assurance that you will _also_ place your own safety first.”

It cost Snape a lot to say that. Harry nods to acknowledge it. “I’ll try to take care of myself better. But I can’t place my own safety first before everyone else’s.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not who I am.”

Snape sounds as if he said “Dursleys,” but Harry ignores that. He can’t talk about that in a rational way, either, which he knows means he shouldn’t try. He opens his eyes and looks at Snape. Snape has his arms folded and a fierce frown on his face. He looks as if he doesn’t know whether to snap at Harry or not.

“So this is where we stand?” Snape asks, when a few moments have passed in silence and Harry has begun to wonder how late he’s going to be to Transfiguration. “With you making promises that you may not keep?”

“I’ll try my best to keep them, sir.”

“But you can’t promise absolutely?”

Harry shakes his head. “I think it’s best that you know that, sir. That’s not the person I am. I can’t stand aside when I see someone in danger. I can ask you for help or warn people if I have time, but I—if it was a choice between going down into the Chamber of Secrets alone or leaving someone to die, I’d go every time.”

“I suppose it would not matter to tell you that _I_ would much prefer that you stayed up here?”

“I’ll always remember it,” Harry says. He’s thinking about this summer again, and how he doesn’t like Snape sending threats to his friends, but Snape not understanding this might be a bigger problem. “I would do all I could to find another solution. But I would still do it. If I could ignore someone in danger, I’d be a different person.”

Snape sighs, from the heart. Then he says, “Very well. I cannot—stand in the way of that. But I do insist that you continue your appointments with Healer Lyndell, even now that we have returned to Hogwarts.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry says quietly. He can respect what it took for Snape to say that. He’ll also respect his own convictions.

Snape hesitates before he casts the spell that will open the door. And then he bends down and hugs Harry, quickly, before he steps aside and lets Harry go.

Harry turns around and leaves with a smile that will grow wider during the rest of the day. He and Snape might not be all right immediately.

But they _will_ be all right.


	12. Testing the Waters

Harry twists and comes out of bed fast, one hand clawing at the air. He’s gasping and sweating, and Lion curls next to him, hissing softly. He sleeps on the pillow most nights, since Harry tends to roll around. Harry grabs him now and puts him on his shoulder, shuddering.

“Harry? Are you all right?”

Blaise is sitting up in his bed, hair sticking out. He tries to pat it down and focus on Harry at the same time. Harry smiles and manages to hold onto the smile as he gets out of bed and walks to the bathroom door. “Fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I just need to get a drink of water,” Harry lies, closing the bathroom door behind him. He listens, but Blaise either believes him or is tired enough not to think he can stagger his way over to the bathroom, because no one follows him.

Finally, Harry turns around and faces his reflection in the mirror, while Lion rears and nudges his cheek and says, _“Bad dreams. Tell someone._ ”

The werewolf scars are brighter than they have been in a long time, streaks of horror down his cheek. But it’s his forehead scar that’s really horrifying. Harry swallows as he watches the crust of blood on it break and a trickle make its way down his cheek. He scrubs at it with a washcloth, but the movement breaks the crust completely and more blood cascades down.

He ends up sticking his head under the faucet and washing off as much as he can that way. It was another dream of Greyback and Voldemort. Greyback was running across a meadow this time, waving two things in the air. It was only when the perspective in the dream flashed closer to him that Harry realized they were two enormous pieces of flesh from a human body, probably cuts in the thigh.

He knows his study of Occlumency with Snape is working. He doesn’t feel Voldemort’s emotions as much now, and his scar bleeds more but not for as long. It doesn’t stop the dreams completely, though, and he’s not sure he knows of anything that will.

When he steps out of the bathroom, an owl is waiting on his pillow. Harry frowns at it, and Lion hisses a warning. Harry draws his wand before he walks over.

It’s an ordinary tawny owl, though, giving him a sleepy hoot and extending one leg with a rustle of feathers that Harry has seen Hedwig do sometimes when she’s tired. He opens the small message to find familiar writing there, even though he hasn’t seen it that often.

_If you would like a stronger way than mere Occlumency to hold the dreams at bay, then come to me, and we’ll talk._

There’s no signature, but Harry knows, he _knows_ , it’s from Dumbledore. Far more than the message itself, the timing of it chills him. Did Dumbledore make a guess that Harry would wake up tonight from bad dreams and go into the bathroom to soothe his scar? Does he have monitoring charms that told him Harry got out of bed, and he guessed the reason?

Or does he have spying charms, far more intrusive, that let him watch the blood drip out of Harry’s scar and then send the owl right away?

Harry shoos the owl out of his bed, ignoring its scolding hoot as it leaves without a return message, and casts a spell that Severus taught him a fortnight ago. The bed sizzles with light for a second, and then small rips appear in the curtains near his pillow.

Yes. Listening and watching charms. _Spying_ charms. They’re gone now, but the really unnerving thing is that Harry has no idea how they got into a Slytherin bedroom in the first place. Did Dumbledore come down here during the summer? Did he have someone else plant them for him?

 _Great_ , Harry thinks as he closes his eyes, sighing into the pillow. _Now I have so much to tell Snape in the morning, and_ none _of it is going to make him happy._

*

Harry finishes his recitation, and looks at Severus. Severus stares back, and wonders for a moment if his intention to move his timetable up and create an undetectable poison to take care of Albus is visible in his eyes.

Harry leans slowly back, Lion whipping his tail around Harry’s neck. “Sir?” Harry asks, in a nice, neutral tone.

 _I cannot resort to murder yet, I cannot resort to murder yet,_ Severus chants in his head. He manages to incline his head and give Harry what he knows is more of a grimace than a smile. “It would be good form from now on to assume that Dumbledore is spying on you everywhere you go,” he says. “Assume he can watch you in the Slytherin common room, practicing with your friends—”

“On the toilet?”

Harry looks nauseated as well as horrified. Severus tries to tone down his glare again. “Yes, you might as well assume there. I doubt he has any interest in your bodily functions, but in how often your scar bleeds? He will want to know that.”

Harry nods slowly, his gaze fastened on the floor in front of him. He swallows. “Sir, given that you’re telling me this...do we have to assume that he has spying charms in this room, too? Can we discuss _anything_ anymore?”

“This room is warded against them. I can teach you how to use the wards on a room, but they would not work on a bed. The most you may be able to do is ward the room where your practices with your study group take place and the bathroom you and the other Slytherin boys of your year use.”

“That would be enough. Thank you, sir. I just—the thought of him spying on me or Blaise or Draco or Theo—or knowing what _any_ of us do in the bathroom—eurgh.”

 _And still you put others before yourself,_ Severus thinks, but he’s wise enough by now to know that probably won’t change. He nods and says, “Come back this afternoon and I will teach you the wards.”

Harry gives him a smile and departs from the room, looking as though he will endure classes today more easily than he otherwise would have. Severus settles back and persuades himself, again, not to kill Albus.

_He might still be needed._

*

Harry steps out of the classroom where his study group has been practicing, and stops. There are two sixth-year Slytherins walking slowly towards him. Harry thinks he recognizes the girl, Florentia something; she’s one of the prefects. The boy is a stranger.

Blaise and Theo are bickering behind him about the right technique to deflect a Stunner when you can’t raise a Shield Charm, but they shut up instantly when they see the older Slytherins. They’re the only ones left behind from the study group; the others have gone on ahead to dinner. Harry casually lets his hand drop until it’s near his wand.

“Can I help you?” he asks, smiling with only his mouth.

Florentia glances at the boy. He shakes his head as if he’s not going to say anything. Florentia shrugs at him and turns to Harry. “We wanted to join your study group,” she says. “We hear that you’re getting higher marks than anyone else in school.”

“That’s my friend Hermione. Maybe you should talk to her instead.”

The boy starts to say something, but Florentia puts her hand on his arm and calms him. She sighs then. “Maybe I should have said _highest marks as a group_. We know that individual students might do better, or might do well no matter who they study with. But we’re interested in being part of a group that’s doing so well.”

Blaise leans over Harry’s shoulder as if to look at the two older Slytherins. Out of their sight, his hand presses tight against Harry’s back. Harry shrugs and gets it off. Yes, he _knows_ not to trust people like this. He doesn’t need the reminder.

“Who told you that we were doing so well?”

“Oh, one hears it here and there. But I think the one who mentioned it specifically to me was Zacharias Smith.”

Harry knows she’s lying without having to be a Legilimens like Snape is, without needing to hear the breath that Theo hisses from behind him. Zach wouldn’t brag about things like that. He’s smug when he’s in the group with them about how well he’s doing in Herbology and Defense now, but he wouldn’t brag to other people because he thinks the group does better when it’s relatively small. He wants to keep his secret.

“I think I’ll have to talk to some of the other members of the group about that. It’s their decision, too, you know.”

“You mean that you don’t just speak as Harry Potter and tell them to obey you, and they do it?”

Harry starts to answer, and the boy standing next to Florentia raises his wand and casts a corkscrewing red curse at him.

Harry reacts immediately, raising a Shield Charm behind him that fills the doorway and will keep Blaise and Theo safe. Then he snaps his arm forwards, hissing, “ _Lion, fly into his face and take him down without biting him._ ”

Lion launches with his wings spread out like a bat’s, and the boy screams once in fear. Harry whirls back to deal with Florentia, who does indeed have her wand out the way he anticipated she would.

She pauses for a moment, and shakes her head. “We really did just want to join—”

“Don’t insult me.”

Well, at least she doesn’t do _that_ , when she begins to carefully cast a series of curses that Harry has never seen before at him. He might not know the specific counters to them, but he knows how to dodge, and he knows how to listen to Lion and the boy and hear when the screams become groans of pain, and he knows how to stretch his hand out and focus his will, waiting for the moment when there’s a slight pause in the barrage of curses.

The moment there is, he uses his magic to tug Florentia’s wand right out of her hand.

She gasps and shakes her hand as if it’s stung. Harry drops the wand on the floor and steps on it heavily with one foot, watching her. Her eyes widen the closer he comes to snapping her wand.

“ _Do you want to reconsider your attack_?” Harry asks. She stares at him, and he realizes he spoke in Parseltongue without meaning to. He sighs and repeats himself in English, looking away from Lion when he lands triumphantly on Harry’s shoulder.

“I—you don’t understand the kinds of pressure that we’re under.” Florentia wrings her hands for a moment, then seems to realize what she’s doing, and clasps them instead. She refuses to look away from Harry, and he supposes that might be someone’s definition of bravery, although it’s not his. “Our families—they insisted that we had to—”

Someone runs up the corridor behind Harry. The minute Florentia sees that person, she shuts up and bows her head. Harry turns around. He’s not all that surprised to see Professor Snape. He thinks that maybe there’s more than one set of monitoring charms watching him.

Snape stares narrow-eyed at them all, then casts a Stunner. It somehow forks in midair, one stab of it Stunning the boy on the floor and the other one going to Florentia. Harry blinks. “I’d like to learn that.”

Snape’s silent. Harry’s skin prickles as he glances at him again and realizes how deeply and how thoroughly Snape is pissed. Harry raises his chin and refuses to flinch. He didn’t do anything wrong. He just defended himself.

“If this is about me using Lion—”

Snape makes a motion with his wand, and something ruptures behind him. Harry glances over his shoulder just as the Shield Charm breaks and Theo and Blaise march out with shadows in their eyes.

 _Oh. This is about being angry that I didn’t let other people help me._ Harry pauses and thinks about the moment when he raised the Shield Charm. He didn’t think about it in terms of fighting by himself. He just cast the Shield Charm and entered the battle.

He waits for the detention, or the angry words. Theo and Blaise walk past him without a word, which hurts, but it’s their right. Harry _didn’t_ think before he acted.

Snape simply studies him for long moments after Theo and Blaise leave, and then he floats Florentia and the boy into the air. “We have an appointment at the Headmaster’s office,” he says.

He walks away. Harry walks behind him, petting Lion on his shoulder and listening to his snake’s proud tale of the battle.

 _At least someone gets to be happy for longer than a day,_ Harry thinks wistfully.

*

Albus looks at the two unconscious Slytherin students, at Harry and Severus, and sits back with a wave of his hand. “Please tell me what happened.”

He listens carefully to the tale of the battle and how Harry used the Disarming Charm on his attacker, shaking his head when he hears that Harry also used his snake. He knew it would happen, but he expected a little time to pass before the boy broke such a simple rule.

When the story is finished, he turns to Harry. “Do you have any idea why they attacked you, my boy?”

“Albus, if you once attempt to _imply_ —”

“Please, Severus. I don’t mean to imply that the boy is responsible for his own assault. I only want to know if he has any idea, if there is a personal grudge involved that might tell us why he is the target.”

In truth, with both Errant and Languire being Dark families, Albus doubts the possibility of a purely personal motive. But he’s looking for a way to use this to his advantage. Even if the only way he can do that is to hammer home to Harry how unlikely it is that Slytherins will be on his side of the war, he will take it.

Harry lowers his eyes, an inconvenient habit he’s picked up over the summer, and strokes his snake’s back. “Florentia—the girl—said something about their families insisting on something. On their attacking me, I think.”

Albus nods. _This will make it easier._ “It is a strong possibility. Of course, she may only have been saying that as an excuse. But if their families put pressure on them, well, it is often hard for young people to resist the pressure of their parents.”

“ _Albus_.”

 _I really will have to do something about Severus._ “Again, Severus, I’m not trying to say that Mr. Potter should have done something else. He took them down, and without any loss of life and even with minimum wounds. That was very well done, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Wary eyes, stiff posture, his hand never leaving the snake. Albus would sigh if it would serve any purpose. _Honestly, confront the boy with the treachery of Slytherins and he still acts like one. What a world we live in._

“I am only saying that there are many children who would find it difficult not to bow to the weight brought to bear on them, perhaps even the threats, if coming from someone other than their parents. And Miss Languire and Mr. Errant are both underage.”

“Albus, they have to be _expelled_! They did not use the Killing Curse, but they used everything _but_! Torture curses, pain curses, curses that would have twisted Mr. Potter’s will and trapped him in his mind—”

“All of which he seems to have avoided handily.” Albus smiles at Harry. He sees his way forwards from this point. Honestly, it’s a pity that it has to be like this, but he needs control over the boy. It’s the only way to be sure that he controls the Horcrux as well. “I think that we can let this go, although of course with hefty detentions for both Mr. Errant and Miss Languire.”

Severus draws himself up. “I will not be overseeing them.”

“I thought that giving them to Argus would settle the problem.”

Severus says nothing else. His furious eyes convince Albus that there is no way to win back the man’s loyalty.

But. Isolate Harry, have him suffer attacks by the members of his House, and he’s likelier than not to turn his back on that House, isn’t he? He drifted away from Hufflepuff and people in Gryffindor in his second year who believed him to be the Heir of Slytherin. Let Slytherin see him as Voldemort’s enemy, which he is, in all truth, and Harry will have no choice but to widen that rift by defending himself.

Albus need not take a hand, which is the way he prefers to do it. He need not even do anything about Harry’s Slytherin friends. He listened to the tale of the battle, and how Harry sealed two of those friends behind a barrier, and it is clear from the murderous expression on Severus’s face when that was mentioned how angry he is about it. The two young Slytherins will be angry about it, as well.

They will all drift away from him. It will be easier to guide Harry back to him that way, and if he is lonely for people beyond Ron and Hermione, then Albus can see that he receives some proper friends.

When Severus stands and says to Harry, “We have things to _talk about_ , Mr. Potter,” Albus closes his eyes and nods a little to himself. It is already beginning.

He need do nothing. Harry Potter was simply not _meant_ to be a Slytherin or an ally of those on the Darker side of the war. The world is arranging itself to Albus’s satisfaction.


	13. A Scolding

“I know that protecting others is a part of you. I would not ask you to change that.”

Harry watches Snape warily out of the corner of his eye as they walk deeper into the dungeons. Technically it’s the path to the Slytherin common room, but Harry is all but convinced they’re going to end up in Snape’s office instead. He’s proven right when they halt in front of the door. Lion hisses a little, revealing Harry’s agitation.

Snape glances at Lion, but he has a blank face. He opens the office door, and they step inside. Harry sits down on the chair with his back very straight and his face being as blank as it can be, but he knows he’s not good at it.

“I will ask that you change your behavior, however,” Snape says as he locks the office door and takes a stance in front of Harry, staring at him with his hands clasped behind his back. He almost looks like he’s making a report. “ _That_ is under your control. You had no need to imprison your friends behind a Shield Charm when they could have helped you.”

“I didn’t know what spells the sixth-years were going to use.”

“Then you should have been equally concerned about your own safety,” Snape says in a soft voice that Harry can only compare to smoke. It gets into everything and makes you cough up things you never intended. “You didn’t know that you could safely face them and disarm them, either.”

Harry says nothing. Honestly, he just trusts himself more than he trusts Blaise or Theo or any of the others to keep themselves safe. He knows what his magic feels like to him: strong and thrumming and waiting to be used. He knows he’s good at wandless magic. He doesn’t know that much about any of the others’ abilities.

Snape sighs after a second and says, “I will assign you punishment for this, as your guardian.”

“Lines?” Or maybe Snape is going to make him stay in the Slytherin common room other than going to classes and meals. That would be pretty bad, because then only the Slytherins in his study group would be able to work with him, and Harry knows people will complain. There’s still some House rivalries in their group.

“No. We are going to talk about why you did what you did. And you are going to have two talks with Healer Lyndell this week instead of one.”

Harry winces. “But—that means that I’ll have to give up one afternoon of working with the study group.”

Snape’s face is merciless. “Then that’s the way it shall be.”

“Don’t you want my friends to be able to defend themselves?”

Now Snape’s face does twitch, but the expression that’s coming over it doesn’t look like it bodes good for Harry. “You are attempting to _manipulate_ me?”

Harry opens his mouth, then shuts it. It’s not like admitting to it is going to make Snape happier with him.

“It’s not working very well,” Snape says dryly into the silence.

Harry grinds his teeth. Then he says, “Missing a study group session is more punishment for them than me.”

“Not if the look on your face is any indication. And it will do you good to speak to Healer Lyndell more often. She hasn’t heard all the stories of how you dash into battles and danger, has she?” Snape’s voice picks up a slicing edge.

Harry finds the strength to lift his head and glare one more time. “At least this way you’re acting like you believe me about _me_ being the one who goes into danger and not my friends dragging me there. So you don’t need to send letters to anyone.”

“I will inform Healer Lyndell of the schedule change.”

 _The bad thing about having Snape as a guardian,_ Harry thinks gloomily while Snape goes to open the Floo, _is that he doesn’t react to the things you most wish he would react to._

*

Theo catches Blaise’s eye when Harry walks into the common room. It’s the stalk of someone who expects to be scolded and is trying like hell to pretend that he doesn’t care. Lion is awake and hissing on his shoulder, though, which spoils the act.

Blaise nods. Although Draco is upstairs and Daphne tucked into a corner of the room, observing, as usual, they don’t fetch them. It was Theo and Blaise who were affected by Harry’s heroics earlier today, not everyone.

Harry catches sight of Theo and throws his head back defiantly. It reminds Theo of something he might have done when he was a child, before his father murdered his mother and put an end to his innocence. Theo only raises his eyebrows and slides off the couch to meet Harry from in front, while Blaise strolls up from behind.

“You have another private classroom other than the one where we study?” Theo asks him a nice, neutral voice.

Harry glances around at the eager eyes in the Slytherin common room that Theo knows are hoping for a permanent rupture or at least a fall from grace. Then he nods, jaw tense, and turns around and leads the way. Blaise follows them.

They end up walking much further than Theo thought they would; there are plenty of unused spaces in the dungeons, after all. But no, instead they go to the second floor and to a space that isn’t a classroom at all. Theo steps inside and stares at the soaked floor, the sinks, and the ghost that glares at him before diving into a loo.

“This isn’t a classroom.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“Why is this place special?” Blaise asks, playing diplomat, before Theo can risk making Harry further angry.

“Because it contains the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets,” Harry says, and nods at one of the sinks.

Theo goes over, not believing, but there is a tiny carved snake on one faucet. He ends up shaking his head and saying, “Fine, it’s private. Now, why did you shut us behind a Shield Charm?”

“Because I wanted you safe and out of the way.”

Harry says those last words with a flippant tone that’s unlike him. Theo might still believe it, given that Harry is probably trying to get out of trouble for what he did during the battle, but then he looks away from them and focuses on the wall. Lion is opening and closing his wings.

“You’re lying.”

Harry jumps as though Theo has stuck a knife into his bottom, which is a rather satisfying response. He spins around. “What are you _talking_ about? Of course I want you safe!”

“Not that. The other part,” Blaise says, because he’s figured it out at the same time. Theo relaxes. Honestly, sometimes it’s hard these days to remember how wary his friendship with Blaise used to be, that they considered each other and Draco rivals for the top of the Slytherin hierarchy. They work together too well now.

Harry looks as though he’s going to kick any second, like a rather disagreeable mule Theo’s father owned for all of a season before he sold it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Theo says. He can see it now, opening out in front of him like a chess problem, or one of those spells that Harry demonstrates and shows him a simpler way to perform than the books do. “It was unconscious, wasn’t it? You cast a Shield Charm to protect us, and you didn’t really _mean_ for it to fill up that doorway or take us out of the battle. That’s just what happened.” He tilts his head at Harry. “Well, stop it. You don’t get to act like that from now on. Blaise and I will teach you to lean on us.”

“No.”

“No, what?” Blaise asks. You could think his tone was pleasant if you were listening from five meters away and had the brains of Crabbe or Goyle.

“No, I’m not going to _lean_ on you.” Harry crosses his arms. “I’ll do my best not to do things _to_ you instead of asking you what you want. But I’m not going to let you be my danger shields, or whatever it is you’re suggesting.”

“Not danger shields,” Theo murmurs, and catches Blaise’s eye. Blaise nods. Well, to him belongs the honor of announcing how things are going to be, then. “Lieutenants.”

Harry stares at him. “We’re not an army.”

“Oh, I think we’ll be before the end,” Theo says lightly. Wizarding wars have been won with armies less than the size of the student body of Hogwarts. And if Harry doesn’t think their study group is going to get bigger, he’s mental. But Theo doesn’t want to confront him with all the facts at once. It’s going to be hard enough to get him to accept _this_ one. “But I didn’t mean it in the sense of formal rank. Just that Blaise and I can be your seconds-in-command, and that means fighting beside you, not standing behind you.”

Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head as if Theo has cast a Stinging Fly Hex on him. “No.”

“It’s already there,” Blaise says, and Theo gladly hands this part of the conversation off to him. Blaise can probably be more subtle than Theo can right now. “The way that people think about us and you respond to us. Theo and I are the ones who handle problems. People who don’t understand something in the study group try to go to you, but sometimes you’re busy, so they come to us—”

“Who? I don’t want anyone to think I don’t have time for them.”

“You _don’t_ have time for them,” Theo says, taking over again, and watching without pity as Harry winces. This is something he’s just going to have to get used to. “Not for everyone who wants your bloody help. And that’s the way it should be, Harry. The bigger our study group gets, the more people will have to help each other.”

Harry looks like he’s struggling with that for a second, and then nods. “Okay. But that would just mean everyone helping everyone, not—not people acting like I’m some kind of leader and you’re the ones they have to go through to get to me.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Blaise chimes in happily, ignoring Harry’s glare. “They have to go through us to get to you. That means we can defend you and help you and we’re exactly like your lieutenants. I mean, we don’t need a cute name or anything. But I’m glad you’re seeing sense!”

“I am not!”

“Right.”

“No—I didn’t mean it _that_ way!” Harry flushes and spins around to face Theo. “You have to understand.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not—they could say that I’m proud, or stuck-up. I’m better at wandless magic than the rest of you, _I_ can face things that would hurt me and walk away unscathed. You have to understand what I’m thinking. What I’m saying. I have to be able to protect you along with everyone else!”

Theo pauses. “And you think we’re making that harder.”

“All this stuff about standing in front of me and people going through you to get to me? Of course you are! It’s going to hurt the hell out of me if one of you gets hurt,” Harry says, and Lion slithers down his arm and raises his head to nudge Harry’s cheek. “Can’t you just—step back and _not_ have this happen? I mean, I agree that everyone in the study group should help each other. Just. There shouldn’t be a special system where you have to do more work or people have to wait to get help from me.”

Theo exchanges glances with Blaise. Blaise nods and then shrugs. He agrees that Harry doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t know how they’re going to get him to.

Theo thinks he knows, but the best words are the ones that Harry isn’t going to want to hear. He tries them anyway. “You can’t be everywhere at once, so people _are_ going to have to wait to get help from you. There should be a special system to protect you because you’re our leader—”

“I thought you didn’t believe in all the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ nonsense.”

You could eat dinner off Harry’s bitterness, it’s so thick. Theo shakes his head. “I don’t. I do believe that you have natural leadership abilities. Maybe it’s because people keep looking at you and expecting you to have them, I don’t know, or because the situation and the pressure forced you to develop them. But leaders _don’t_ do everything by themselves, Harry. Do you think a leader of an army deals with every single small thing someone comes up with? Does the Minister for Magic walk through the offices every day and ask how someone’s pet Kneazle is?”

Harry hesitates for the first time. Then he says, “Last year, I thought that I would need other people to help me.”

“Yes?” Theo replies, immediately, encouragingly. Lion is lying back down beside Harry’s neck, which Theo thinks is also a good sign.

“I want to do that. I want to let people help me.” Harry’s body is tense and still, set, his hands vibrating a little as if he wants to reach out and grasp someone’s neck. “But it seems that every time I do that, someone might get hurt. Even if it’s only getting their feelings hurt because I can’t help them. What do I do about that?”

“Trust that they can defend themselves,” Theo tells him quietly.

“But they _can’t_ , yet.”

“Well, you never even gave us a chance against those sixth-years!” Blaise snaps.

Theo tries to glare at Blaise and tell him to shut up, but it seems that his words have reminded Harry of something else. “And it’s a bloody good thing that you didn’t get one,” Harry says, folding his arms. “Dumbledore is letting them stay in the castle with detentions and nothing else. I think he wants to make me feel paranoid and start distrusting other people in our House.”

Theo savors the quiet moment of warmth that _our House_ gives him. “Why would it be good that we didn’t get to duel them, in that case? If we had, we’d stand a better chance of convincing them to leave you alone.”

“Because this way they’ll target me, not you.”

“Ah, so we can creep up behind them and stab them in the back!”

Harry looks as if he wants to beat his head against the wall in frustration. Or maybe he wants to beat Blaise’s head. “Look, will you _accept_ —”

“You going into danger by yourself and leaving us behind?” Theo interrupts. “No, of course not.”

“I’m just trying to keep—”

“The focus on you at all times.” Blaise shakes his head sadly. “And I thought that you didn’t like the fame of being the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Harry stares at Blaise in such outrage that Theo loses it and laughs. It feels good. He didn’t have much to laugh about this summer, even when he watched the poisons that he fed his father taking effect. That’s a cold, quiet, private joy.

Harry spins around. “What is _funny_?”

“The way you have of admitting that you want help, and that you know you can’t do everything by yourself, and yet you insist on trying to do everything by yourself for some stupid, ridiculous reason.”

Harry sighs and slumps back against the wall, running his hand through his hair. “Logically, I know I can’t do everything by myself. Logically, I know the study group is going to get too big and I can’t teach everyone all the time. But emotionally…I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“But that has to include you,” Theo points out. “If you want to be around to teach the others and us and keep us safe and fight in more battles, then you can’t confront enemies like those sixth-years alone. Because what if _you_ get hurt and have to spend a lot of time in the hospital wing, and we lose the chance to learn from you?”

Blaise catches his eye and grimaces at him. Theo shrugs. He knows Blaise wishes they didn’t have to use that tactic. But Theo is going to use what works. He leaves the lighter aspects of things like cracking jokes to Blaise.

Harry looks quietly struck. He reaches up and soothes Lion down from a hissing curl, and then nods. “All right,” he says. “I think—well, maybe you can make sure that those sixth-years don’t ambush me or anything? And you can teach the study group when I have to miss it on Tuesday.”

“Why do you have to miss it on Tuesday?” Theo asks, alert.

“Because Professor Snape’s making me have an extra session with a Healer as punishment.”

Theo thinks that Harry is the only person in all of Slytherin who would regard going to a Healer as punishment, but then, he’s still pretty Gryffindor in that. He nods. “Blaise and I can handle the group.” _And we already have our own spy ring in the upper years,_ he thinks about saying, but he wants to prepare the ground for that revelation, instead of just announcing it like that.

Harry tilts his head at him, as if he thinks that maybe Theo is hiding something anyway. But he _has_ learned not to ask certain questions of Slytherins that he doesn’t want answered, so he only nods and says, “All right. And—I’m sorry for trapping you behind that Shield Charm. I didn’t mean to do it, but I’m sorry all the same.”

“It’s all right,” Theo says, and Blaise nods. Blaise is quicker to forgive than Theo, truly, but Theo got the chance to watch the battle, and is confident that he made the right decision.

There’s no way that he’ll follow Voldemort, and not just because he hates bowing and wouldn’t look good in black and silver. He knows who’s going to ultimately win.


	14. A Leader to Follow

“So you really didn’t mean to keep your friends from participating in the battle.”

“No.” Harry relaxes against the brilliant couch in Healer Lyndell’s room at St. Mungo’s. There are colors like a peacock’s tail in the cushions and the pillows. Harry Flooed here from the fireplace in Snape’s quarters, and he likes it better than the house where he and Snape live for talking. Healer Lyndell’s rooms are full of colors and quiet ticking sounds and even falling water. And there are at least two white Kneazles with big golden eyes stalking around. “That’s what I don’t understand. They _know_ I didn’t mean to do it. So why do they keep looking at me like I did?”

“They may not blame you so much as want to know how to keep it from happening again.” Healer Lyndell smiles at him a little and gives him a cup of water. Harry drinks it and finds out it’s flavored like strawberries. “You said that was why you had the conversation with your friends, right?”

“Well, why they had the conversation with me,” Harry says. “I didn’t know why they wanted to at first. Yeah.”

“And they appear to have understood, and you promised that you won’t do it again.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, though. What if I do it again without _meaning_ to? I really don’t know if I can hold back.”

“Then I think you need to become more conscious.”

Healer Lyndell sounds serious. Harry pauses and then sets the cup on the bright wooden table next to the couch. “How do I do that?”

“Think more about what you’re doing,” Healer Lyndell says quietly. One of the Kneazles hops up next to her, and Healer Lyndell starts petting it, but doesn’t take her eyes off Harry. “I know that you tend to react quickly, and that’s served you well in the past. But now it doesn’t.”

“If I see something happening and I have to _react_ , though—”

“How often does that happen, Harry?”

“All the time,” Harry says gloomily. “When I had to rescue Ginny in second year, I had to do something right then. And I did _try_ to get an adult to go with me, but Lockhart was no good.”

“And it might have happened with the Philosopher’s Stone in your first year. Yes, I understand. But that is still only twice. Are there really any other situations where not reacting first would have harmed someone? Would pausing to stop and think be so much worse than what you have done?”

“In Quidditch, yeah.”

Healer Lyndell laughs. That’s one of the reasons Harry likes her, because she has a sense of humor. “No, Quidditch is an exception to the rules, isn’t it? But I want you to think of other situations where you could have stopped and thought. In fact, that’s your homework for next time we meet.”

Harry slumps a little. He hates it when Healer Lyndell gives him “homework,” if only because it takes so long to do and it’s so hard to work on. So far, she’s made him spend time meditating, writing down alternate scenarios of what he could have done when he was in a dangerous situation, and talking more with Snape.

“So I have to write down what I should have done instead?”

“No, you’ve already done that, remember? I want you to write about situations other than ones where someone’s life was in danger where you could have stopped and thought. Try to examine why you didn’t. Someone’s life wasn’t always in danger.”

Harry wants to say that _yes_ , it was, but from the stern look in Healer Lyndell’s eye, he knows he isn’t going to be able to press her much further. He hangs his head a little. “Yes, Healer.”

“It’s truly meant to be for your own good, Harry.” Healer Lyndell’s voice is soft as she reaches out to clasp his hand. “I suspect that as we unravel some of the other problems that have plagued you in the past, we’ll figure out the answers to this and many other things.”

“Not _everything_ goes back to my life with the Dursleys.”

Harry meant to mutter that softly enough that she wouldn’t hear, but her eyes sharpen. “Did I say it did?”

“No. I think—I think Professor Snape thinks it does.”

“Ah. Well, Professor Snape is scheduled to meet with me next week, for a session of his own. This might make a good topic to talk about with him.”

“Do you give him homework, too?”

“No, he freely assigns himself tasks that he believes will help you. And help him.”

Slightly miffed that apparently that’s what Snape does, and that Healer Lyndell probably thinks he should, too, Harry stands up. “How many situations do I have to write down where I acted without thinking?”

“Ten should be enough.” Healer Lyndell stands up and shakes hands with him again. “Take care, Harry. I’m glad to see that you take your serpent everywhere with you. He might keep you from having to make these kinds of decisions sometimes.”

Harry is smiling, with his hand firmly on Lion’s back, when he goes back through the fireplace.

*

Hermione is used to ignoring Parvati and Lavender’s giggling as they chatter away about boys; they like to sit on one couch in the Gryffindor common room, and she likes to sit on the other one. Right now, she’s concentrating on trying to make sense of the scribbled notes in an old Charms journal she found in the library.

So she doesn’t actually notice the silence until the couch cushions on either side of her dip. She blinks and looks up at Parvati and then at Lavender. “What is it? I’m not hiding a boy under my skirts.”

Parvati rolls her eyes. “No, you’re just hiding where you go to study three afternoons every week.”

Hermione shrugs. She and Ron and Neville and Ginny are careful when they join the study group; they don’t want anyone hostile following them. And there are some Gryffindors who worship the Headmaster the way _she_ used to. They could tell him. “I’m not compelled to tell you everything. We’ve never been best friends.”

“No, but we want to know how you’re getting such high marks,” Lavender says.

“I study.”

Lavender flushes and looks like she’s about to open her mouth to retort, but Parvati catches her eye and shakes her head. She turns to Hermione. “This is more than you could do before, though. We looked for you in the library and didn’t see you. And when your quill fell on the floor the other day…”

“Yes?”

“It looked almost like you did _wandless_ magic to get it back.”

Hermione feels her neck prickle, and wants to groan. She tried to be so careful, and she still messed up. “I’ve become very good at the Summoning Charm,” she lies without a blink. “I can do it nonverbally now. That’s what you saw.”

“No, because you didn’t use your wand, either,” Parvati insists. “You put out your hand and glared at it and the quill _flew_ to you.”

Hermione straightens her shoulders. She isn’t going to let them mess up the study group. She’ll get one of the older students who can handle the Memory Charm right to _Obliviate_ them if they insist. “Well, you wouldn’t want to study with me, anyway.”

“Why?”

“I study with Harry and some other Slytherins.”

Lavender recoils. “Why would you want to do _that_?”

“Because he didn’t stop being my best friend when the badge on his robes changed,” Hermione says coldly, and starts packing her books together. The classroom where they’re meeting this week is down near the Hufflepuff common room, and she has a long walk. “I know you don’t think much of him anymore. I’ve seen you whispering behind your hands and looking at him.”

“Hermione, he has a snake!”

“Yes? And so what?”

Lavender seems to be at a loss for words. Parvati takes over. “We don’t despise Harry,” she murmurs, looking a little ill. “I have no problem with studying with Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs. But…being around _snakes_ is different, Hermione.”

“I don’t think you’ll convince Harry to leave Lion behind, even if you want to study with him. Lion goes everywhere he does. And anyway,” Hermione adds sweetly, because she can’t resist, “naming his snake Lion shows that Harry is still connected with his Gryffindor heritage.”

“We meant the Slytherins.”

“You mean a lot of things.” Hermione swings the bag with books over her shoulder. “But none of it is making me want to study with you. This group isn’t really about higher marks, anyway. We concentrate on magic that’s useful in battle.”

“Who are you going to be fighting?” Parvati’s eyes are huge.

“Voldemort,” Hermione says, and it’s unworthy, but she feels pure pleasure when they flinch. “You’re blind if you think he’s never coming back. You’re stupid if you think the Ministry will take care of him when he does.”

“I’m not blind or stupid!” Parvati tries to stand tall, but she’s really not any taller than Hermione is herself. “I just don’t see why schoolgirls would be fighting him!”

“What if there’s no one else? What if everyone cowers and lets Harry do the work, the way they did after the first war?”

“Well,” Lavender says, hesitantly, “that doesn’t mean we would have to help Harry fight.”

“And you call yourself a Gryffindor,” Hermione says, and stomps off to the study group, feeling irritated and justified at once. It’s rather a confusing feeling.

*

“Lavender and Parvati acted like they wanted to join us. But they don’t want to work with Slytherins, and they seemed upset at the idea that we might be fighting Voldemort.”

“Then they can change their minds or not show up,” Harry says, and moves on, turning around to wave his wand at the wall of the classroom. By now, all of them are experts at the spell that makes writing appear on the wall, and changes writing that’s already there, so Harry can write up incantations even easier than some of the Hogwarts Professors can. “Let’s look at how we could use wandless magic in a battle if someone took our wands away.”

Ron leans back and studies the group thoughtfully as Zacharias Smith speaks up. “Why can’t we just get our wands back?”

“If they have them in a warded room—”

“Is this inside, then? I thought we were talking about a battle outside.”

“If a whole army attacks Hogwarts, then we’re going to be fighting inside, aren’t we? _And_ from behind wards.”

“Then how would they get our wands?”

Ron didn’t see it at first, because he was too distracted by the fact that there were _Slytherins_ here, and by Smith’s smart mouth and Luna’s dreaminess and lots of things that don’t seem important now. But he’s reached the point where he can see the flow of the group. It’s as though this is an enormous chess game that happens on alternate afternoons and Ron picks up possible strategies for moving across the board every time he sees people.

 _Only_ moving across the board, though. Ron has to acknowledge by now that there’s no way to win the game. It’s not the kind of game that can be won except by everybody working together.

Harry is the center, the revolving whirlwind that draws other people into revolutions around him. He makes chaos by asking questions or giving unexpected answers or displaying spells that other people don’t think he can do, but then he teaches them how to trace different paths. Ron doesn’t know how to name him, since there’s no piece like him in a traditional game, but maybe, maybe a pawn who refuses to be a pawn.

Zabini and Nott shadow him in a way that reminds Ron of a knight and a bishop; they can go in unexpected directions any second to protect Harry from harm. A lot of the rest of the group are pawns, too, but learning new moves. Dumbledore used to be the chessplayer, but Ron doesn’t think he is anymore. That’s part of what makes it so chaotic. Harry is the teacher, but he keeps pushing back when they try to make him the _leader_. He wants to help everyone without actually saying, “I’ll tell you what to do.”

Maybe it’s a chess game that plays itself.

 _Yes, that’s what it is,_ Ron thinks, after a few minutes of wandless magic practice that see Luna summoning something from across the room for the first time and a few people staring enviously. Most people are applauding, though. _Or if it’s not what it is, then we need to try to_ make _it into a chess game that plays itself as soon as possible._

Ron nods and goes over to speak to Harry. Harry is standing off to the side, his eyes on everyone, ready to jump in and help, or soothe the arguments that still sometimes flare up. They’re usually about who’s better at things and not House rivalries, but you never know.

Harry looks up to smile at Ron. “Doing all right, mate?”

“That’s my line,” Ron says, and punches Harry gently on the shoulder with his closed fist. Lion watches him suspiciously. He never seems to have got used to the idea that Harry and Ron punch each other because it’s fun, which means it’s fine, and it doesn’t have to have anything to do with Lion. “I wanted to know if something changed lately with Zabini and Nott.”

Harry sighs. “They came and had a conversation with me that I reckon they’ve been waiting to have for a long time. They want to call themselves my lieutenants and me to give them more things to do. They were really angry that I didn’t let them help with those sixth-year Slytherins.”

“You said no?”

“I said that I didn’t like the word lieutenants. And that it couldn’t be just them, that I had to give other people something to do. And I don’t like other people going into battle.”

Harry speaks the last words softly enough that Ron isn’t sure he meant to say them at all. Still, they’re kind of surprising. Ron blinks and sweeps his hand around the room. “I mean, isn’t this what you’re doing? Teaching us so that we’ll _live_ if suddenly we’re fighting You-Know-Who?”

“But no one’s _good_ enough yet, Ron,” Harry says. His eyes look like something out of a nightmare. “What if they get hurt?”

“Then they get hurt,” Ron says firmly. He knows Harry doesn’t want to live with the guilt if he lets someone fight and they get hurt, but that’s the way it is. “That would still be better than dying. And it’s better than standing by and watching _you_ fight and not being able to do anything.”

“It—is?”

Harry looks absolutely bewildered, staring at him. Ron wonders if he’s hit on an angle that Zabini and Nott didn’t find. That would actually be shocking. Ron doesn’t always like those Slytherins and the way they act like he and Hermione weren’t here _first_ , but they’re pretty good at finding all the corners of an argument.

“O’ course, mate,” he says gently. “It would hurt you a lot if one of us got hurt. Why don’t you think we’re the same way about you?”

Harry just has eyes the size of Mum’s dinner plates and no expression other than that. Then he nods. Ron sighs. It’s too bad that he can’t do something about the Dursleys now, but someone already did, so he can keep on being a good friend to Harry and even admit the Slytherins have a point now and then.

“I—yeah, okay,”

 _I wonder if the Slytherins didn’t bring up being hurt by him because they thought it would make them look weak or something,_ Ron thinks as he follows Harry back to the rest of the group. _They said something to convince him, though. We should work together instead of sniping at each other about Houses._

Ron still can’t approach Malfoy; it’s just not in him yet, not after what the git did in second year. (Maybe it will be someday). But he can take a deep breath and lead Zabini aside before the study group ends that day. He’s a little more approachable than Nott.

“Harry said something about you being his lieutenants?”

Zabini studies him intently. Then he says, “Not just us. But none of us want to see Harry jump between us and danger and never think twice about his own skin.”

Ron nods determinedly. It’s the same wish he has, just differently expressed. “Then we want to help,” he says, and catches Hermione’s eye. She apparently nods at something Chang is saying to her, but Ron knows she’s paying attention.

Zabini follows his gaze. He seems to relax instead of get more tense. “Well, good. Let’s have a discussion some time. Tomorrow? You have a free period after Charms?”

“Yeah.” Ron swallows. It kind of feels like conspiring against Harry, but at least they’re conspiring to keep him alive. “Let’s do it.”


	15. The Tournament

“I don’t understand why the Headmaster thinks the Tournament is going to bring the schools closer together,” Draco says from his seat in front of the fireplace.

Harry, busy with a Transfiguration essay, shrugs a little without looking up. Lion is next to him, lying on the hearth stones with his body stretched out as if he can absorb even more of the heat that way. “I suppose we don’t have to worry about it. Either it’ll work or it won’t.” He frowns and flips through his book. Professor McGonagall insisted everything they needed to write about why you can’t change a four-legged living thing into a metal object was in this chapter, but he can’t find it.

“But aren’t you curious about how it’ll affect you?”

“Why would it affect me?”

“Some of the other students in the schools will want to talk to you, and maybe take photographs with you.”

“They can do that whether or not they’re here for a tournament.” Harry glances up and grins as he sees Draco hanging off the edge of the couch, watching Harry with a wrinkled forehead. “You’re trying to get out of doing this Transfiguration essay, too, aren’t you?”

“It’s so _boring!_ I don’t understand why she doesn’t concentrate on practical Transfigurations the way we do in the study group. That would be fun. But instead we have to do all the boring theory.”

“I suppose the theory is important, too.” Harry shuts his book with a snap. The information definitely isn’t in the chapter. He’ll have to look at his notes that he took on McGonagall’s lecture that day and see if they’re there. “You have to know it or you can’t make the right decisions when you use Transfiguration in battle.”

“Is battle _all_ you talk about?”

Harry eyes Millicent Bulstrode, who has been listening to them lately but barely ever says anything. She has also spent an evening or two with the study group, but she always leaves halfway through. Harry turns to face her. “What else would we talk about? A lot of the magic we study is offensive and defensive. Or you can learn to use it that way.”

“Magic to make people’s lives easier,” Bulstrode says, and shoos her cat away when it tries to sit in her lap. “Decorate houses, change potions, make better lifts. Why aren’t you talking about that?”

Harry shrugs. “I think you can definitely talk about that. But I teach battle magic in the study group.”

“I want to study it with you.”

“Well, sorry, but I wouldn’t be good at it anyway.” His notes from McGonagall’s lecture are back in his room, and Harry wants to move anyway because he wants to test a theory on something. He stands up and stretches, and sure enough, there’s a little ripple of motion over in the corner where Theo is sitting on a chair facing the fire. “I concentrate so hard on battle magic that I barely have time for things like Potions.”

“Professor Snape could make you.”

“Yes, he could,” Harry agrees, and leaves out his own private conclusions that Professor Snape isn’t that stupid. “But I do all right in his class. I just don’t see the point in studying so hard outside the class for it. I’ll have to do that for OWL’s next year, why can’t I do what I want right now?”

Bulstrode frowns, and then gets up and walks up the stairs to the girls’ rooms. Harry shakes his head and walks up his own set of stairs, and then moves a little to the side of the door and waits.

Theo comes strolling through it, looking casual, except that he can’t look casual enough to fool Harry because it’s _Theo._ Harry snorts a little as he meets Theo’s eyes. “Listen, mate, can we stop with the pretense that I need you or Blaise to accompany me to the bloody bathroom? And don’t think I haven’t noticed Ron and Hermione in the corridors and the study classrooms.”

Theo pauses, then says, “All right, you said something about it sooner than I thought. I knew you’d _notice_ it. We just hoped to get away with it a little longer.”

“Why?” Harry sits wearily down on Theo’s bed. “I know that you spoke to me about wanting to help me. Fine, we can do that. But that’s not the same thing as following me everywhere.”

“Those sixth-years got the idea of attacking you from somewhere,” Theo says quietly. “And Blaise and I had no warning of it, which I thought we would given the pressure that we’ve been putting on some of the upper-year students—”

“The _what_?”

“If I said ‘super-secret political moves,’ would that suit you better? I have money of my own, Harry. My mother left it to me. It’s useful as bribes. Blaise is good at hinting around and pretending to know things he doesn’t actually know, and also good at actual blackmail. So, yes, we should have had some warning. But we didn’t, and now the upper-years are shutting us out and not talking to us. So someone else could attack you at any time. We want to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

Harry sighs and looks up at the ceiling. Sometimes he thinks everything in Slytherin is beyond complicated and he’s never going to understand. “Okay. But they probably aren’t going to attack me in the bathroom.”

“This is your way of telling us that you want privacy, or you’re going to sneak out and play with a murderer like you did last year?”

“Sirius is _not_ a murderer.”

“You didn’t know that at the time.”

Harry finally nods. “Yes, all right? I do need some time when I’m not doing anything other than mediating, or studying by myself, or, hell, using the loo.” He and Theo both blush at that, at least. “I’ll always have Lion with me. And I’ll have the protections that Snape and Daphne gave me last year.”

Theo nods slowly. “Then I’ll tell the others to cut it back to seventy-five percent of what it is right now.”

“Fifty percent.”

“Can Lion protect you that well? Seventy.”

“He can protect me well enough, and you haven’t even seen all the things that he did to those two sixth-years who came after me. Sixty.”

Theo hesitates, then produces a deep sigh. “Yes, all right. But you can be the one to tell Weasley and Granger. I’ll tell Blaise. Honestly, Granger is like an attack dragon. Did you know she has the whole school mapped now, and corners around which someone might fire a curse at you?”

Harry grins, relaxing. There’s honest admiration in Theo’s voice, which is something he never thought to hear from any of his Slytherin friends regarding his Gryffindor ones. “Well, good. Then that ought to ease Snape’s paranoia.”

“It’s not paranoia, and it’s not just Snape,” Theo says, folding his arms and regarding Harry as if he’s a disobedient Crup puppy. “You ought to know that by now. All of us want you safe.”

“Yes, but with you and Ron and Hermione and Blaise, it’s personal. It’s _friendly_ ,” Harry adds, when every part of Theo’s face seems to go up with his eyebrows. “The others just want to protect someone they can learn something from.”

Theo frowns, but doesn’t say anything about the others, only, “And Professor Snape?”

“With him, it is paranoia.” Harry sighs and turns away when he sees the expression Theo’s face takes on then. “Please, Theo, don’t act as though his ridiculous specifications about me sending him messages when I make it back to the common room at night are normal.”

“He has good reason to be afraid of losing you. And—Harry?”

Harry glances up. Theo has come towards him and is resting a hand on his shoulder, staring intently into his eyes.

“I don’t have a normal relationship with my father. And I don’t think yours with Snape is exactly normal, either—”

“He’s not my _father_!”

Theo shrugs and says, “Guardian, then,” which doesn’t appease Harry a whole lot. But Theo is still staring, still tightening his hand, and after a second, Harry gives a grudging nod. Theo continues in a softer voice. “But I would rather have one like yours than one like mine. And believe me when I say I make that choice in an _informed_ way.”

Harry slowly nods again. Theo squeezes his shoulder one more time, then turns and vanishes into the bathroom.

Harry leans back against the pillow and stares at the ceiling. He knows that saying aloud what he really feels would only make him sound ridiculous, so he’s not going to do it, at least right now.

But the thought burns in the center of his chest.

_They want to treat me like a child, and I’m not._

*

“Smarten your scarves!”

Hermione doesn’t need the reminder, but she notes disapprovingly that a lot of the Gryffindors do. _Honestly._ They’re standing outside to greet foreign schools, at the first Tri-Wizard Tournament in two hundred years, and people have _sloppy scarves._ Hermione doesn’t know how Professor McGonagall stands being Head of Gryffindor, she really doesn’t.

Not that far away stand Harry, Nott, and Zabini, ignoring the rest of the Slytherins who cluster behind them. Their gazes are locked on the shape hurtling through the sky towards them. It’s a huge dark shape, but people who start screaming about dragons are ridiculous, in Hermione’s opinion. As though a dragon would be flying around and heading straight for Hogwarts without breathing some sort of fire! _Honestly._

It turns out to be a glittering carriage drawn by huge golden horses. Hermione winces at the thud as they land, but notes with interest the two-wands three-stars sigil of Beauxbatons on the doors. She hopes some of the students speak English so she can ask them how that symbol got chosen.

The door opens, a student lowers the stairs, and the largest woman in the world comes out.

After a moment of blank staring, Hermione realizes she isn’t _really._ She’s about Hagrid’s size, which means she must be half-giant. But she still seems like she looms over them all as she shakes out her robes, and also moves forwards to shake Professor Dumbledore’s hand.

Her name, it turns out, is Madame Maxime. Hermione firmly bites her lips so she won’t get the giggles, and then notices out of the corner of her eye that Ron’s scarf is crooked and reaches out to adjust it.

“Leave it alone, Hermione,” Ron hisses at her, watching the blonde girls who are also getting out of the carriage with a starry-eyed stare. Hermione sniffs and pulls her hands back to her sides. She was only trying to help.

The Durmstrang students arrive in a ship that actually arises from under the Black Lake. Hermione spends a moment thinking about the physics of that, and then decides that she’s not going to. She’s far more interested in the spells they must have cast to make the boat behave like that, and where in Bulgaria—or Russia, or wherever the school is actually located—they would have started from.

She doesn’t much like Karkaroff, the Dumstrang Headmaster; he makes her feel slimy just by looking at him. But Ron is almost drooling over the student who walks at the front of the line when they come off the ship. He’s apparently the Quidditch player, Viktor Krum.

“How can you not _know_ that?” Ron hisses at her, as they stand aside so the students of the other two schools can file into the Great Hall.

“Some of us have more important things in life than Quidditch,” Hermione announces loftily. She resists the temptation to lift her nose high. Some of the girls from Beauxbatons are doing enough of that for everybody.

“But you _know_ —”

Hermione is able to tune him out as the Hogwarts students follow the others into the Great Hall. She can hear the Beauxbatons girls muttering to each other about how dire the Hall looks, and flushes with offended pride. Hogwarts is a _good_ school. So what if it’s not made of gleaming marble the way that Beauxbatons apparently is?

She’s sort of glad that the Beauxbatons students sit with Ravenclaw, and the Durmstrang ones with Slytherin. It means that they don’t have to put up with that sort of muttering at the Gryffindor table. She viciously stabs a piece of potato, and Ron quietly edges towards the other side, where Seamus sits.

“Just because you can hear them despising the school doesn’t mean _you_ need to despise them, Hermione,” Ron whispers.

Hermione pauses, then nods. She didn’t realize that Ron knew any French. Or maybe he doesn’t, but he can figure out why she’s reacting that way. “You’re right. Sorry.”

On impulse, she glances over at the Slytherin table to see how Harry is reacting to the Durmstrang students sitting with him, but they’re clustered too thickly and she can’t make her friend out. At least she knows he has enough friends in his House now to make it unlikely that people will get away with tormenting him.

*

“You are a _Parselmouth_?”

Variations of that question keep being repeated up and down the table in voices with a variety of accents. Harry wants to shake his head in exasperated amusement. Why does it _matter_? Does Durmstrang have a cult of Parselmouth-worshipping people or something?

Then again, the students in Slytherin didn’t react much differently when he got Sorted there last year. So he just keeps nodding and eating so that he has a legitimate excuse for not replying often. At least Lion is enjoying the attention, flapping his wings and turning his head from side to side so they can all admire his scales.

Someone stirs next to him, and then one tall boy moves down to make way for another one. This one leans over and says, “I am Viktor Krum.”

“Oh, right,” Harry says, after blinking for a moment at a face that he saw on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ for a few months. “Harry Potter. And you can pet Lion if you want,” he adds, holding out his arm so Lion can crawl down it.

Krum does so, scowling all the while as if it’s a task that takes a great deal of concentration. Then he says, “If you are a Parselmouth, why are you here?”

“Where should he be sitting?” Theo leans around Harry to ask. “The _Gryffindor_ table?”

Krum ignores Theo, which isn’t an easy thing to do and makes Harry almost impressed. “No. I meant only that Durmstrang—it looks upon Parselmouths good. Well? Yes, well.” He nods, seemingly content with his word choice. “Hogwarts hates them. Why would a Parselmouth attend Hogwarts and not Durmstrang?” He tickles Lion under the chin, and Harry has to put up with the excited chatter of a snake about someone who knows the _real_ way to pet him.

“There wasn’t a choice,” Harry says, shrugging. “Durmstrang was never an option.”

Krum stares at him, his hand forgotten on Lion’s back until Lion nudges his hand like an impatient cat. And even then, Krum looks carefully at Harry instead of Lion. “What is this? My Headmaster, I know he sent you an invitation.”

Harry sighs, weary instead of surprised, even though he can hear some of the Slytherins muttering indignantly. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Maybe it got blocked or lost somehow. But I’m at Hogwarts now.”

“You would come to Durmstrang if you had the chance?”

“No. Hogwarts is my home.”

“Yes, well said, Harry.” Draco has been looking at Krum with something like hero-worship in his eyes since he sat down, but now he looks sharp and wary again. “Maybe _some_ people at Hogwarts hate Parselmouths, but none of _us_ do. We know that Harry is exactly where he belongs.”

Krum gives Draco a skeptical look and finally stops petting Lion, which means Harry can go back to his dinner. But it’s not long before someone comes walking up behind Krum and interrupts him. He and Krum talk in something that might be Russian, and then the man turns and holds out his hand to Harry.

“My name is Headmaster Igor Karkaroff,” he says, in a voice that’s not accented as heavily as Krum’s. He beams at Harry when Harry cautiously shakes his hand. “Viktor tells me that you never knew you were invited to Durmstrang! Shameful, simply shameful. I suspect that someone may have—well, we will not speak ill of those who aren’t here to defend themselves.” He sighs and purses his lips. “Come speak with me when you have the chance, dear boy. We have a lot in common.”

And off he walks, while Harry stares at his back in amazement. He can’t imagine what he would have in common with Headmaster Karkaroff. He can’t be a secret Parselmouth, too, or he wouldn’t want to reveal it to a young boy from another school. And what else could he have to say to Harry at all?

Then things get weirder when they leave dinner and Snape ambushes Harry in the corridor that leads to the dungeon stairs, drawing him aside. “You are never to be alone with Karkaroff,” he hisses sharply.

“Uh…”

“You are _not_.”

“Fine. I wasn’t going to accept his invitation anyway, sir.”

Snape nods and walks away as if that’s all settled, then, his cloak snapping behind him. Harry narrows his eyes. Next to him, Blaise clears his throat, and Harry turns to look at him. “What?”

“That’s the look that says you’re already plotting to disobey Professor Snape,” Blaise points out. “And then there’s regret and pain. Can we just skip the disobedience step and go right to the regret and pain? That would at least get it over with quickly.”

“Shut up,” Harry mutters, and walks to the Slytherin common room with his guard at least a little less pronounced than usual. The Durmstrang students will be rooming with them, and maybe his guards want to tone it down. Or maybe they’re too busy talking to and about Krum to stay so close.

He doesn’t particularly _want_ to talk to Karkaroff. But he has to admit that he’s even more curious why Snape wants to _keep_ him from doing it.


	16. The Goblet

Harry wakes with a soundless cry. He immediately claps his hand across his forehead and holds his scar still and silent. He is _not_ going to wake his roommates up. They get up the rest of the time when he has nightmares. He won’t do it now.

But the nightmare was pretty vivid and real. Harry gets up and leaves Lion asleep on the pillow. When he goes into the bathroom this time, the scars on his face from Greyback stand out. Harry swallows and uses a sponge to get the blood off his lightning bolt scar, then winces as he touches the others. They throb when he does.

Harry dreamed of Greyback plunging his arm into fire. He was laughing when he did it, which makes no sense to Harry. Greyback, he knows from his dreams, likes causing pain to other people, but he hates it when it happens to him.

 _You should tell Snape,_ Harry tells himself, and braces his hands on the bathroom sink so that he can stare at his sullen face in the mirror.

Yes, he’ll tell him. He’ll do it quietly, and he’ll do it during the time that Snape already set up to “talk” to him tomorrow. It’s for the best. For all Harry knows, the dream is showing Greyback developing some terrible fire spell.

But Occlumency still can’t stop the dreams. Nothing does, Harry thinks wearily as he accidentally brushes the werewolf scars and hisses. And he thought the werewolf scars were fading, but it seems they’re not. It’s not even the full moon.

He’ll just have to put up with it when he has dreams about Greyback, maybe, Harry thinks as he goes back to bed and thumps down into the pillows. He keeps his cheek with the scars pointed upwards, and Lion immediately crawls towards him and nestles down into the warmth of his neck.

He does, sometimes, wish he could do something other than endure.

*

“May I present to you,” Dumbledore says, throwing his arm out, “the Goblet of Fire!”

Theo looks up, and blinks at the shimmer of both heat and magic coming from the Goblet. It really is a powerful magical artifact, something he somewhat doubted the first time he heard about it. There are some people who would call a toy wand that threw sparks when you touched it a powerful magical artifact.

This goblet has cold flames burning around the top, and Theo supposes that it probably also looked like that when it was sitting behind Dumbledore’s Age Line. He just didn’t notice because he had better things to do than sneak around trying to get his name in the Goblet. He doesn’t even know why people who aren’t seventeen would want to compete, and most of the people standing up for the Tournament who _are_ the right age have no chance. He hopes that no Slytherins were stupid enough to put their names in.

Then he sees a few eager expressions down the table, and sighs. Yes, there were some stupid enough.

Harry isn’t paying any attention to the Goblet, busy as he is at sketching what looks like a plan of the Quidditch pitch where their study group is going to hold a mock duel tomorrow, but Blaise nudges him and hisses at him. Harry promptly raises his head and pays what might look like rapt attention to the Goblet if you weren’t sitting next to him and couldn’t see his frown. Theo rolls his eyes at Blaise over Harry’s head.

Dumbledore holds out his hand, and the Goblet turns bright red as it spits out a piece of paper. Dumbledore catches it and unfolds it.

“The champion for Durmstrang is Viktor Krum!”

 _What a surprise,_ Theo thinks as he watches Krum stand up from further down the Slytherin table and walk towards the front of the Hall. There are Slytherins clapping as if it’s one of their own. None of the Durmstrang students look the least bit surprised.

“The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!”

The tallest part-Veela girl stands up from the Ravenclaw table as people applaud. Theo thinks dispassionately that she’s pretty, but they have to hope she’s also powerful. He doesn’t really want to see people die in front of him. He has too much experience at that already.

“The champion for Hogwarts is Cedric Diggory!”

“A _Hufflepuff_?” Draco hisses as they watch Diggory stand up from the Hufflepuff table and wave before he saunters into the back room, too. “You really want to hang the chances of our winning the Tournament on a _Hufflepuff’s_ shoulders?”

“Hufflepuffs are worth as much as anyone else.” Harry doesn’t look up from the map he’s drawing. “You ought to know that from having them in our study group, Draco.”

“There’s a difference between having them in our study group and having them—”

The Goblet abruptly blazes again. Theo sits up. Sometimes he thinks that his mother had a touch of Divination talent, and sometimes he thinks that he inherited it. Another parchment flies out of the Goblet and over to Dumbledore’s hand, and even though Dumbledore himself is widening his eyes and everyone in sight is murmuring and exchanging confused glances, Theo somehow knows what the note is going to say before Dumbledore unfolds it.

“And our fourth Champion, it seems,” Dumbledore says into the straining silence, “is Harry Potter.”

*

Harry wants to shrink away. He thinks he understands, now, one of the reasons that he had the nightmare he did.

But shrinking away isn’t an option, and he stands up and makes his way to the front of the Great Hall. There’s silence only until he gets around the end of the Slytherin table. Then people start shouting, screaming, yelling, whispering, and pointing.

Harry keeps his head up and his eyes focused in front of him as he walks. He’s just going to keep going. Lion hisses comforting words on his shoulder. Harry reaches up and pets his snake as he steps into the small room where the rest of the Champions have gathered.

They all turn to stare at him. Cedric’s face is twisted in confusion. Krum looks stoic. Delacour is the one who comes a step forwards.

“We are to compete with a little boy?” Her voice is high and very French. She flicks her blonde hair and looks down her nose at him. “I do not understand. I thought the competition was for adults only?”

“Someone put my name in the Goblet,” Harry says. He keeps his voice dull, the same sort of voice he would use when Dudley and his friends used to corner him. It’s the only one that might work in this situation. “I didn’t do it. But I don’t know if I can get out of competing.”

“I am afraid not, my boy.”

Harry stiffens his shoulders but doesn’t turn around and acknowledge Dumbledore. He honestly doesn’t see the point. He waits until Karkaroff and Maxime and Ludo Bagman and Crouch are all in the room. And there’s Professor Snape pushing in after them. His eyes are black and shiny as he stares at Harry, and then he leans back on the wall and looks at the other people in the room.

“The Goblet binds the people whose names come out of it,” Dumbledore continues, stepping around in front of Harry and trying to catch his eye. Harry stares past him at the wall, almost meeting Snape’s gaze, but not quite. “And the ones whose names go into it, of course. It’s why I wanted to ensure that no child could put their name into it…”

“Well, your Age Line failed, Dumblydoor!” Madame Maxime puts her hands on her hips. Harry has to admit he almost smiles. A giant woman looming over Dumbledore and scolding him isn’t something he’s ever seen before. “What do you intend to do about it?”

“Nothing more than go forwards with four Champions, of course. When names come out of the Goblet, we cannot deny them.”

“I do not think that’s true, actually,” says Karkaroff, shaking his head a little as he folds his arms. “The others all put their names in and were chosen for their schools. But what school shall Mr. Potter be competing for?”

“For Hogwarts, of course.” Dumbledore sounds surprised that it’s even a question.

“Hogwarts already has a Champion.” Karkaroff gestures at Cedric, who’s watching Harry with mixed emotions in his eyes. “Is it fair that it should have two? If so, then let me choose a second Champion for my school.”

“And me for mine!” Madame Maxime can fill the whole room with her voice when she wants to.

“That will not be allowed.” Dumbledore folds his arms. “The Goblet has gone dark, and it will not relight again. And we agreed that the Champions should only be chosen by the Goblet of Fire.”

“I don’t want to compete.”

Everyone turns around and stares at Harry as if they forgot he was there, even though they were arguing about him. Karkaroff shakes his head a little, his face blank. Krum clenches his jaw. Delacour is the only one who speaks.

“We did not want you to compete, either! Against a _child_. Where is the glory in that?”

“Harry isn’t just an ordinary child, you know,” Cedric huffs, as if it’s on him to defend Harry’s honor or something. “He’s capable of fighting back against a Dark Lord who destroyed his parents, and he’s even a Parselmouth!”

That makes Madame Maxime and Delacour stare at him harder, as if they didn’t know, but Karkaroff shakes his head. “It does not matter how great or extraordinary he is,” he huffs. “He is not someone we must concern ourselves with. He is a _child_.” He says the last word with a stress that Harry doesn’t understand, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Harry will need to compete,” Dumbledore says. His eyes are narrowed as he watches the way that Karkaroff leans towards Harry, and Harry doesn’t think he likes it much, for some reason. “However, we may make sure that it is as fair as possible. Harry will not receive any extra help. He will need to compete on his own.”

“He’s three years younger than everyone else here!” Cedric protests, sounding appalled. “And the Tournament’s tasks are so dangerous!”

“But the Goblet has gone dark,” Dumbledore says, exactly as if that’s reasonable. “Harry will have to be in the Tournament, and of course we should find out what he did to bypass the Age Line, so that no one else can pull the same trick and enter the Tournament that way.”

“ _I didn’t do anything_ ,” Harry says. They won’t listen to him if he shouts, so he tries to make his voice low instead, and sound reasonable. “You can give me Veritaserum if you want. I didn’t enter my name.”

“Even if you didn’t, my dear boy, you still have to compete.”

Harry feels Lion nuzzling his cheek and hears him hissing comfortingly in Parseltongue. Harry reaches up and strokes him with one hand, then says to everyone who’s staring at him, including huffy Madame Maxime and scowling Karkaroff and utterly blank-faced Snape, “Maybe I have to compete, but I’m not going to _win_. I’ll throw all the Tasks. I’ll make sure that I don’t earn any points.”

Dumbledore sighs a little. “Now, Harry—”

“And I will offer him the extra training that we do need to make this fair,” Snape says, voice as blank as his face. “Mr. Potter has not had the same kinds of training that Mr. Krum and Mr. Diggory and Miss Delacour have had. He will receive it.”

“I said there would be no extra help,” Dumbledore says, and his face flushes a little. It’s funny, Harry thinks, watching him. He can’t remember seeing _that_ before. It just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Dumbledore does. “That means that we must keep to my word.”

“With respect, Headmaster, you made the promise. I did not. I would be rather remiss as young Mr. Potter’s guardian if I did _not_ give him the extra training.”

“You!” Karkaroff’s voice is shockingly loud, but Harry thinks that might be because it’s such a small room. “You—you’re the boy’s guardian, Severus?”

Snape turns his head a little. “I am, Igor.”

Harry watches them together, and suddenly is sure. Karkaroff was a Death Eater. That’s how they know each other. That’s the reason that Snape didn’t want Harry to be alone with Karkaroff.

Which irritates Harry, because Snape could have just _said_ , and that would have kept Harry away from Karkaroff a lot more effectively.

“We cannot reward Harry for breaking the rules, Severus.”

“I hardly think participating in a Tournament that Mr. Potter has already said he will throw counts as a reward, Albus.”

“He broke the Age Line—”

Snape takes something out of his pocket. It glitters and shifts, a potion in a small glass vial. “I believe that I also heard Mr. Potter volunteer to take Veritaserum. Would you do that, Mr. Potter? Show that you really didn’t enter your name in the Goblet or cross the Age Line?”

“Of course,” Harry says at once, before anyone else can say anything. “I don’t want to participate, and I didn’t put my name in the Goblet.”

Dumbledore studies him for a moment, then sighs. “My dear boy, you don’t have to take Veritaserum to prove that. All you would have to do is say that you didn’t do it, and everyone involved would believe you.”

Harry looks blankly at Dumbledore for a minute, wanting to say that that didn’t work when people thought he was the Heir of Slytherin and it won’t work now. But he ends up turning to Snape and asking, “Can Professor Snape ask the questions? Since he knows how Veritaserum works and everything.”

“I think it should be more of a group effort,” Karkaroff begins.

“I will not permit that, as Mr. Potter’s guardian,” Snape says, as unruffled as a cat. He holds out the vial of Veritaserum to Harry. “Three drops on the tongue, and _I_ will control the questions.”

Harry opens his mouth. He does trust Snape, although he knows that if someone else asks a question, then he’s going to have to answer it. But at least they’ll have Snape taking vengeance on them later, so that makes it worth it.

The first drop of the potion on his tongue seems to sting, and Harry’s eyes water for a second. Lion hisses soothingly in his ear. The world all around him pulls away, and he finds himself floating in what feels like a haze, although at the same time the potion seems to have cleared his eyesight. He can see every nuance of Snape’s expression as the man kneels down in front of him.

“What is your name?” Snape asks. His voice rings like a gong in the back of Harry’s head.

“Harry James Potter.” Harry says it because it’s so unthinkable not to, and his voice is distant, so _that’s_ okay.

“What is your date of birth?”

“The thirty-first of July, 1980.”

“Who is your guardian?”

“Professor Snape.”

Snape nods, and says to someone who Harry can’t see so they must not be all that important, “The traditional three testing questions whose answers we already know. Now. Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?”

Snape’s voice is strangely tender. Harry wonders why as he replies, “No.”

“Did you have someone else enter your name for you?”

“No.”

“Did you make any attempt to get past the Age Line, on your own or with someone else’s help?”

“No.”

“Did you want to enter the Tri-Wizard Tournament? Did you want to win it?”

“No. No.”

Snape steps back from him, his head tilted a little and his mouth worked in a curious smile. “Can anyone else think of any variations of the question to ask? I confess that I cannot.”

“Who do you think is going to win the Tournament?” Karkaroff abruptly demands, and Harry thinks from a distance that his face is dark with anger. Harry wonders why. He didn’t do anything to anger anyone.

“I don’t know.”

“You _must_ know!”

That doesn’t sound like something he needs to answer, so Harry stands there and waits for something he does. Dumbledore leans forwards so that his face looms in the corner of Harry’s eye and asks, “Are you trying to be disrespectful to me, Harry?”

“No,” Harry says, and nothing more. Again, there are words he could say, but the question didn’t ask for them, so he doesn’t say them.

Dumbledore opens his mouth again, but Snape says harshly, “That’s enough,” and gives Harry another potion. It’s like it heals the stinging in his tongue. He shakes his head and blinks, and then shudders a little. He doesn’t like Veritaserum _at all_. He doesn’t like not having the choice to lie.

“I will spread the truth of the matter to my Slytherins,” Snape says. His hand is on Harry’s shoulder as if he wants to keep him from sprinting away, although Harry’s head is aching and the only sprinting he’s going to be doing is to bed. “I trust that you will do the same to the other Houses, Albus?”

“We should think about what is best for the students, Severus. Having two Champions could—”

“We are going to take the boy out of the competition, of course, Dumblydoor!”

“I do agree,” Karkaroff says. Harry thinks the man is looking at him, although he refuses to glance up to be sure. “He shouldn’t be allowed to compete even if he _says_ that he didn’t want to enter his name.”

Harry closes his eyes, and is glad when Professor Snape practically hauls him out of the room by his shoulder. Snape bends down when they’re out of the Great Hall with its stares and whispers, too.

“Some may turn on you,” Snape tells him in a voice that stings like the potion. “That does not matter. I will be at your side, and so will your true friends. Do not react to their taunting with violence. Tell them that you told the truth under Veritaserum about not entering the Tournament, and I will do the same.”

“Do I have to compete?” Harry asks quietly.

“You must show up at the Tasks, but they cannot _make_ you,” Snape says in the same tone.

Harry considers that, then nods. He supposes it’s the best he can hope for. He just wishes this hadn’t happened.

He would give so much to be _normal_ , with living parents and no Parseltongue and no one the slightest bit interested in his House or his magic or anything else.

But he can’t be, so he straightens his shoulders and walks towards the Slytherin common room with a spine of steel. He can already tell that he’s going to need it.


	17. Snakes, Hissing, Whispers

Harry walks into the Slytherin common room and sees the eyes of the seventh-years and the sixth-years immediately turn to him. He ignores them, going over to the corner where the fourth-years are sitting. Daphne stands up and looks him keenly in the face as he approaches.

“So you’re in the competition,” she says.

Harry shrugs and sits down on the couch in the spot she just left. Lion is looped around his throat like a golden collar. He doesn’t seem to want to let up. That’s all right. Harry would rather that he didn’t just now, either. “Not by choice. Someone entered my name. I’m planning to throw all the Tasks.”

Blaise nods. Theo raises his eyebrows a little, but doesn’t say anything. Draco is the one who looks appalled. “ _What_? Harry, this is our chance to earn Slytherin House a little glory! What’s our other choice? Get represented by some worthless _Hufflepuff_?”

Harry turns to face him, ignoring the avid stares from every corner of the room. “Draco, are you listening to yourself right now?”

“Maybe you don’t care about the way Slytherin gets scorned because you weren’t with us all four years, but—”

“Follow Harry’s advice and listen to yourself, Draco.” Theo can speak with utter, casual boredom, the way he does now, while he examines his nails and frowns a little over them. “Glory when it means that Harry will be competing against people three years older than he is, who know a lot more magic? Do shut up before you embarrass yourself further.”

“ _You_ shut up, Nott,” Draco retorts, and then seems to realize that isn’t the height of maturity, either. He flushes and stands up. “Am I the only one who cares that we’ve got a Slytherin Champion?” he asks the whole common room.

Harry stares down at his lap and wishes he could knock his head against a hard wooden thing (which means Draco’s skull would do). There are still plenty of people in Slytherin who don’t like him, as those two attackers proved the other day. Draco inviting the rest of them into what was meant to be a private conversation is just going to result in blood in the water.

“I think that we’d better support him if he gave up that nonsense about not putting his name in,” says someone Burke, folding her arms.

Harry turns around and stares at her hard enough to make Burke flush. “I already said that I didn’t do it,” he replies. “For that matter, I _confessed that I didn’t do it under Veritaserum that Professor Snape brewed._ Is that enough for you?”

“It’d better be, Burke,” someone else mutters. “If Professor Snape hears that you’re disparaging his Potions skill—”

“Yeah, Potter can’t somehow fool Veritaserum that Professor Snape brewed,” someone else chimes in.

“Any more than he could get across an Age Line that Professor Dumbledore cast himself.” Daphne is turning around as if she thinks the whole Slytherin common room got replaced with Gryffindors when she wasn’t looking. “Anyone who says that Harry put his name in the Goblet should watch their mouths.”

“And their backs,” Blaise adds with a bright smile. He holds up his hands when older Slytherins glare at him. “What? I thought we should make the implicit threats explicit, given that this seems to be the night for speaking nonsense aloud.”

“Who put your name in the Goblet, then, Potter?”

Harry wants to grimace. He hasn’t had a chance to discuss his nightmare with Snape yet, and Snape is going to be rabid when he finds out that Harry sort of talked about with the other Slytherins before then. But he doesn’t need to mention his nightmare to give them a general truth. “I think it has something to do with Voldemort, of course. Who’s the person who wants me dead the most?”

Half the common room flinches. A quarter look puzzled. Some of the Slytherins in his study group just look infuriated. Millicent Bulstrode is the one who comments. “But how can he get inside Hogwarts?”

“Do remember your history, Millie.” Daphne can sound incredibly condescending with just a twist of her voice. “He was here our first year, possessing that fool Quirrell. Obviously whatever protections Hogwarts has can’t keep him out if he’s absolutely determined to come in.”

“Quirrell was just scared of vampires! He wasn’t _possessed_.”

“I suppose you’ve been listening to Potter tell you these tales?” Burke demands.

Blaise glances at Harry and tilts his head. Harry shrugs permission. As far as he's concerned, Blaise doesn't need it. He already told him about what happened in first year and he didn't ask Blaise to swear some vow of secrecy, so that means that he can talk about it to anyone he wants. But he appreciates Blaise asking.

Blaise turns around and smiles brightly at everyone. "Voldemort _was_ possessing Quirrell," he says. "On the back of his head. Why do you think he wore a turban?"

"Because it was a _present_!"

"And why do you suppose that he disappeared at the end of the year?"

"There's this little thing you might have heard of, Zabini, called the curse on the Defense position--"

"What was the forbidden thing in the third-floor corridor that year?"

That nets him blank looks, but also suspicious ones, all of them directed at Harry and not Blaise. Harry is abruptly tired of it all, literally tired. He wants to go to bed and then get up in the morning and deal with more people who are going to disbelieve him no matter what he says.

Well, no, he doesn't _want_ that. But he can at least get some sleep. He stands and leaves the room, most people's eyes tracking him, although some of them do turn back to Blaise when he starts speaking again.

Harry sighs as he settles into bed, and listens to Lion promising to hurt the people who hurt him. He wants to--

Well, he wants lots of things, not least a normal life and his parents being alive. He supposes that he has to make do with what he has, for now.

*

Ron is struggling with lots of different feelings.

On the one hand, if Harry managed to get past the Age Line and put his name in the Goblet, Ron is impressed. Not even the twins managed to do that, and everyone thinks they're brilliant. But Ron is also angry that Harry didn't tell them he was planning to do that--probably to spy on Voldemort or someone from Durmstrang?--and put himself in danger.

Hermione, though, looked pretty angry when Ron suggested that. So Ron doesn't dare repeat it too loudly. Maybe Harry didn't, and even if he did, then Hermione _thinks_ he didn't. Ron has to keep quiet and support his friend.

But he wants to know the truth. And people are saying that Professor Snape gave Harry Veritaserum yesterday and he told the truth under it about not entering his name in the Tournament, but the only ones who saw that happen were Dumbledore, Snape, Harry, some of the Tournament judges, and the Headmasters and Champions from the other schools. Would they tell the truth? Or would they be upset because Harry managed to make them look silly and so say that of course he didn't do anything all that great?

And some of the Gryffindors are angry and jealous, like that berk Cormac McLaggen and even Lavender, and Ron doesn't want to be like them. So he joins Hermione in scowling at them and saying of course he believes Harry, that Harry didn't enter his name in the Goblet, that Harry is his best mate.

But he does sort of wonder.

"If Potter put his name in the Goblet, that just proves he belongs in Slytherin," Lavender says loudly when she and Parvati come down the stairs from the girls' bedrooms and walk over to the fire. Ron has the impression they're talking to Hermione more than anyone else. Hermione is already putting down her homework and turning around to answer them, but Ron jumps up.

"How does it prove that, Lavender?" he demands. "Or--well, you're not really saying that he belongs in Slytherin, right? You're trying to say that it proves he never belonged in Gryffindor, right?"

Lavender blinks and looks annoyed. Then she says, "Well, doing something so sneaky and underhanded _isn't_ something a Gryffindor would do."

"I'm hurt!" Fred calls from across the common room.

"So am I, Forge!" George claps his hand across his heart and drapes himself over the chair he's sitting in, gasping for breath. "I suppose we were secret Slytherins all along! We aren't fit to breathe the refined air of Gryffindor!"

"We never knew that sneaking across the Age Line--"

"And growing beards, rather fine beards, too, if I do say so myself--"

"Meant we should also be Sorted into Slytherin! Years after the fact!"

Lavender folds her arms and glares at them, but doesn't say anything. Ron shakes his head and knows he's chosen his side, like that was ever in doubt. "Harry's a Gryffindor _and_ a Slytherin, Lav. Just because his name got put in the Goblet doesn't mean it was his fault."

"So I suppose you believe that ridiculous story about Snape giving him Veritaserum and him saying that he didn't put his name in the Goblet?"

"Don't let Snape hear you say that's only a story," Hermione says. She appears to be knee-deep in her homework, again, but Ron knows she's paying attention. "He was giving people detentions yesterday evening for saying they didn't believe Harry."

"But that's--that means that we can't even say that he has an unfair advantage!" Parvati exclaims. "That's _wrong_!"

"So is hexing and pranking Harry based on his involvement in a Tournament that he didn't want to enter." Hermione lifts her head. Her eyes are so cold that Ron takes an involuntary step backwards. "The way I heard some people talking about doing yesterday. So Professor Snape is just making sure that you can't get away with something so dishonorable and _Slytherin_. Do you object to that?"

"You know as well as I did that Harry put his name in that Goblet, Granger."

Ron winces and whistles under his breath. Parvati thinks she knows what she knows, but she _should_ know that saying something like that is the shortest route to stirring Hermione's temper.

Surprisingly, Hermione only smiles and shakes her head a little. "If you want to doubt Harry's word, I suppose I can't stop you. But I wouldn't want to doubt the efficacy of Veritaserum brewed by Professor Snape himself, and Professor Snape's word, and the word of Headmaster Karkaroff and Madame Maxime." She tucks a few books into a bag and stands up, looking at Ron. "Will you come with me, Ron? I have to return these to the library."

"I'll come, too," Neville says quietly. Ginny stands up and follows them. No other Gryffindors follow for the moment, but Ron hopes that others who are in the study group will think about whether Harry is really guilty or not.

"I noticed what you didn't say," Ginny tells Hermione as they're walking down the stairs that lead from the seventh floor.

Hermione shakes her head briskly. "Then you know that I don't want to talk about it here." Her eyes flicker up to the portraits who are watching them, and Ron's gut clenches as he thinks he understands what Ginny means, too.

He deliberately doesn't talk about it until they're in the library, though, obeying Hermione's wishes. Then he turns around and says to Hermione, as she raises a privacy charm around them, "You mean that Professor Dumbledore wasn't telling people that Harry testified under Veritaserum that he didn't put his name in the Goblet. Our own Headmaster."

Hermione sighs and takes a seat on the chair nearest a shelf, tilting her head back so that her hair slides out of her face. "No, he wasn't. He was smiling when Karkaroff and Madame Maxime talked about it, but he didn't _say_ anything. I don't know if that's meant to be a gesture of not supporting Harry or just not to commit himself. It could even be a way to control Harry. I don't know."

"Ron? Hermione?"

Ron glances up sharply. Harry is standing next to the table, his hand clenched into a fist as though he thinks he'll have to break something. Lion is coiled on his shoulder, staring at them curiously. Malfoy and Theo and Blaise and Greengrass stand behind him. Hermione quickly reworks the charm so that it spreads out and includes other chairs at the table.

"You noticed it, too," is the first thing Theo says to Hermione as they sit down.

Hermione nods. "Professor Dumbledore is holding his distance from Harry. We just don't know _why_."

"But you don't believe I put my name in the Goblet?"

Ron looks at Harry. He's leaning forwards across the table, but his expression is less strained than Ron thought it would be. For a minute, he wonders if Harry suspected they would never waver towards him.

Then he realizes it's something else. Harry just looks so strained so much of the time now, it's kind of normal.

"Of course we don't believe that," Hermione says.

Ron's earlier conflicting emotions have died down. He reaches out and claps Harry's shoulder. "'Course not, mate," he says.

*

"So you believe it was Greyback who put your name in the Goblet."

Harry relaxes back against his chair with a sigh. He also thought that maybe Snape would disbelieve him about the dream, but the man is accepting it. "Yeah. I had a dream about him practicing Confundus Charms on a cauldron. I thought it was weird, but he was probably practicing for the Goblet. And then he--"

“Managed to intrude onto the grounds and find the Goblet.” Professor Snape shakes his head and spends a moment contemplating the far wall, as though he’s seeking someone to blame for this. Harry doesn’t really care if Snape does, as long as it’s not him. “And of course the Headmaster refuses to update the spells that could tell us when a werewolf enters Hogwarts.”

“I knew he couldn’t last year because of Remus, sir. Couldn’t he do it now?”

“That would prevent Lupin from visiting—something he is insistent on.”

Harry frowns and says nothing. He thinks Remus may need to visit, since he’ll probably come with Sirius, and Sirius sent him a letter saying that he’s supposed to visit this afternoon. But after that… “Maybe I could just take the Floo to go to Sirius’s house and meet with Remus there if Dumbledore updates the spells.”

Snape has a near-silent way of laughing that can be really creepy sometimes. “If you think you can convince the Headmaster, then by all means go ahead and try.”

“Is he really that supportive of werewolves?”

“Has he ever tried to have a werewolf student come to Hogwarts besides Lupin?”

“I mean, I don’t know, sir. That’s why I asked.”

Snape hesitates, then shakes his head. “You handle many situations well enough that sometimes I forget how little you know of history,” he murmurs. “No, he has not allowed any others to attend, Harry. But he has also said that may change someday.”

“So he’s keeping the protections down against werewolves, or whatever, just so that he can seem friendly to them, while he doesn’t actually allow any of them into the school as students.”

Snape nods. Harry slumps back and stares up at the ceiling. “And it’s no good telling the Aurors to go after Fenrir Greyback, because they’re probably hunting him already.” The side of his face stings where the scars lie. He rubs them absently.

“Do not touch them like that. I will fetch you a painkilling potion if you wish.”

Harry drops his hand away from the scars and just clutches the arm of the chair instead. He doesn’t have a whole lot of plans, he just wishes he was free to scratch the scars the way he wants. “I’m fine, sir. Do you think—do you think Sirius is going to urge me to compete in the Tournament when he arrives?”

“He can say whatever he likes. You do not have to listen to him.”

Harry relaxes cautiously. Snape sounds a lot calmer about that now than he would have been at the beginning of the summer, or right after Greyback attacked Harry. “All right, sir. Thanks.” He stands up. “And thanks for the Veritaserum and correcting the Slytherins who still say I must have put my name in the Goblet.”

Snape waves a hand. “A guardian is supposed to do these things.”

 _Yes, but no one made you be as devoted as you are to me,_ Harry thinks, casts a _Tempus_ Charm, and starts off to meet Sirius.


	18. Conflicts

“How are you doing, Harry?”

Harry leans into Sirius’s hug and takes a moment to relish the way he just hangs on. Here is someone who would never disbelieve Harry about putting his name in the Goblet. And Remus comes up and hugs him next, and Harry feels a comfort in the touch that he never did before. The scars on his face spark for a moment.

Maybe they like being around other werewolves. Harry shrugs. He doesn’t much care about the source of the feeling, given that it’s something pleasant for once.

“Are you going to compete in the Tournament?”

“You can’t get out of participating completely if your name went into the Goblet, apparently,” Harry says, sitting down next to Sirius on the padded bench that he’s Transfigured a classroom chair into. Sirius promptly ruffles his hair. Harry bats his hand away. “But I’m going to do as little as I can. I’ll sit there and watch the First Task happen without doing anything, and all the others, too, if I can.”

“What?” Sirius frowns at him. “But then no one is going to get to see everything you can do!”

“ _Sirius_.”

“No, I mean it, Remus! I know that Harry doesn’t want to be in this Tournament, but now that he is, he should show off his skill! Maybe that would make some of these idiots stop snickering behind his back, because they won’t want to be cursed!”

Harry rolls his eyes. It’s not really unexpected that Sirius would react this way, which means he’s prepared for it better than he would have been at the start of summer. “They either already know what I can do or I don’t _want_ them to know, Sirius. No, I’m going to sit this out.”

“But Gryffind—I mean, Slytherin pride!” Sirius looks less enthusiastic after remembering Harry’s House, though.

“Draco tried to say something like that yesterday.”

“ _That_ little prick?”

Harry grins at Sirius. Sirius hasn’t really warmed up to any of his Slytherin friends, although he grudgingly admitted that Blaise wasn’t too bad after Blaise stayed for most of the summer in Professor Snape’s house without killing Harry. “Yeah, you have that much in common.”

Remus coughs, barely muffling his own laugh. “Do you think the magic will allow you to get away with not competing in the Tournament, Harry?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t think anyone knows for sure, because in the past, everyone who entered the Tournament actually wanted to participate. But I’m going to do it, and no one is going to change my mind. No,” he adds, when he sees Sirius trying to open his mouth. “It doesn’t matter what you say to me. _No one can_.”

The words reverberate in the air with a power that Harry honestly wasn’t ready for. Sirius blinks and opens and closes his mouth for a second. Then he sighs. “I know why you don’t want to show off your skills, but you could still use sneakiness and guile to win,” he says hopefully. “That would even fit in with all the Slytherin traits that Snape wants you to display.”

“Sirius—”

“I don’t want to.”

Sirius blinks at him. “So you don’t—well, I mean, I reckon it’s good that you don’t have excessive pride. That was the kind of thing that got your dad into trouble all the time.” He smiles fondly, but his eyes are still scanning Harry. “You don’t care what they say about you? What they think?”

Harry sighs and rubs his forehead. His _main_ scar has picked up a slightly prickling heat that’s different from the pleasant flush his werewolf scars give from being near Remus. “I care. But I can’t allow myself to put that above everything else, Sirius. Not when I know this is a plot to kill me. I have too many other things to _do_. This Tournament is just going to take up a little more of my time than I planned, not a lot more.”

“Okay.” Sirius still looks as though he thinks Harry might change his mind any minute, but at least he’s not arguing about it. “So what do you think is the best way forwards from here? Are you going to try and figure out who put your name in the Goblet?”

“I know that. Fenrir Greyback.”

Remus growls. The sound bounces around the room and raises the hair on the back of Harry’s neck, but part of him approves and wants to growl in return. He suppresses it. Freaking out Snape is the last thing he needs.

“How?” Remus is up and pacing the room now. His eyes are flashing amber in a way that Harry normally sees only much closer to the full moon.

“I had dreams of him practicing the Confundus Charms on cauldrons. He sneaked onto Hogwarts’s grounds and Confounded the Goblet into accepting my name. At least, the dreams didn’t show that happening specifically, only his arm reaching into fire, but I’m sure now that that’s what did.”

“And we’re no closer to capturing him.” Remus abruptly spins around and punches the stone wall. Harry stares as he watches dust drift to the floor and the wall actually shudder for a second. When Remus pulls back, he leaves a hole behind.

Harry blinks. For a second, he wonders what spell would let him do that. He’s studied shield spells that bind tight to your skin, but they’re only good if something strikes you from outside, not to hold up against you hitting something as hard as you can.

“What has Albus said?”

“Professor Dumbledore? He _let_ Professor Snape give me Veritaserum.” Harry rolls his eyes. “But the other Headmasters are putting the word around that they don’t believe I put my name in the Goblet—probably because otherwise it would make them look like they’re afraid of Hogwarts having two Champions or something—and Dumbledore hasn’t said a thing.”

“He still wants to control you,” Remus mutters. “Him and his games.”

Sirius blinks. “I’m surprised to hear you say something about that, Remus.”

“I’ve finally woken up.” Remus exhales and leans his forehead against the wall, not far from the hole that he punched. “I think your plan is the best one, Harry. Try to stay out of the Tasks and make sure that no one can coerce you into participating. In the meantime, Sirius and I are going to hunt for Greyback.”

“I don’t want you to,” Harry says, and shakes his head when Remus turns to stare at him. “There are already a bunch of Aurors hunting him. You’re not trained like they are. I want you to stay safe and out of danger.”

“You don’t need to worry about us as if you’re the adult and we’re the child, Harry,” Sirius says, and messes up his hair again. “Even if Snape told you that we’re children and you need to.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I have emotions because I just have them, Sirius, and Snape didn’t tell me to have them.”

“Yes, fine. But it’s still true. Remus and I are capable wizards, you know! I even trained as an Auror along with your dad…”

Harry listens to the stories that he’s heard before, and catches Remus’s eyes a time or two. Remus smiles at him reassuringly, and doesn’t agree with Sirius that they’re completely invincible. But he also doesn’t say that they’re not going to hunt Greyback and Voldemort.

Harry breathes in deeply to control his frustration as best he can. He reckons that he isn’t going to get any better than Remus’s gentle reassurance. That means that he’ll just need to put up with it, the way he does with so many things.

Another burden to shoulder.

*

“I want to see what you are made of.”

It’s one of the Beauxbatons students who’s come up to them as they make their way through the corridors to Charms. Harry stops at once, his face going blank. Blaise shakes his head a little. He never remembers Harry going that blank during the summer, or even last year. He did sometimes towards the middle of last year, though.

That was when he was trying to pick up all the problems he could, and solve them, and stop anyone from seeing how much they affected him. Frankly, Blaise _didn’t_ miss the way he looked when he did that.

The Beauxbatons student in front of them isn’t the Champion, Delacour, but another one of the tall girls who’s probably part-Veela. Blaise, with his own Gift that can compel people to like him and do what he wants, can feel the allure that hovers around her, like invisible wings folded for now. Her hair is long and silvery-blond, rather reminding him of Draco’s, and her eyes a piercing blue.

“What do you mean by that?” Harry asks, his voice soft.

“I want to duel with you.”

“No.”

The girl gives a mocking curtsey, and her French accent gets a little stronger, even though she speaks English well. “Then I suppose that I can go on thinking that you are a weak little child, no? Not at all worthy to stand beside Fleur when she competes in the Tournament.”

“Given that I didn’t enter my name in the Goblet, you can think what you like,” Harry says, and walks past her with his head held high. Blaise watches the girl just to be sure that she doesn’t cause trouble, and sees a crease pinch between her brows for a second. Then she does start drawing her wand.

But Theo is in the way, and he grips the girl’s arm and leans nearer to whisper something in her ear. Blaise doesn’t think it would make sense even if he could hear it; Theo speaks French and Blaise doesn’t. It’s effective, though. The girl’s face turns white, and she makes her way towards the door that will lead her back to the great Beauxbatons carriage that the students stay in most of the time.

“What did you do?” Harry has his back turned, but of course he would have sensed what was happening even if he didn’t look. Blaise shakes his head in amazement. Harry is just special.

“I threatened her,” Theo admits without looking ashamed of it, coming up to walk at Harry’s side. “Just so that she wouldn’t think she could curse you in the back instead of dueling you face-to-face.”

Harry hesitates, and then nods. Part of Blaise’s tension whirls away. It seems that Harry has finally accepted that his friends are going to protect him as best they can, and it won’t always be the way Granger would, with words, or the way Ron would, with punches.

And it’s effective. Theo is one fucking scary bastard.

*

Lucius lands in the small clearing as he comes out of his Apparition and looks around carefully. The forest glade doesn’t look impressive from a distance, but he can feel the hum of the wards that encompass it, now that he’s in the midst of them. And the way that a small hole was opened in the wards, just for him. The world around him sings with protective magic.

His skin shivers with the power. Lucius nods. He did think carefully about it, but the more he thinks, the more he’s sure he made the right decision.

“Welcome, Lucius.”

Lucius hisses under his breath as Greyback seems to melt out of the leaves in front of him. The werewolf smiles, an easy baring of teeth, and turns around to trot in front of him. Even in human form, he walks as if he’s going to drop to all fours at any moment.

“Where is the Dark Lord?”

“Not far. Don’t worry your pretty blond head.”

Lucius has no choice but to clench his teeth and walk in silence—well, silence except for the shifting and crackling of leaves underneath his feet. The Dark Lord, for whatever reason, has chosen to trust Greyback. Lucius has to admit that he probably couldn’t have a more powerful protector right now.

Even if a disgusting one.

The leaves become a curtain hanging from a tall tree, and Greyback pauses and glances over his shoulder. His teeth are flashing in the moonlight now. “A word of advice, Malfoy. The Dark Lord isn’t in the mood to hear insolence or comments on his appearance.”

Lucius nods and tightens his hand on his cane. He understands. The Dark Lord must have chosen incredibly advanced Dark magic as a way of avoiding death. Of course he would look less than human now.

Greyback pulls the curtain of leaves back, and Lucius sees a dark space that resembles a cave, although the walls are the wood of tree trunks and the roof and the floor appear to both be leaves. There is _something_ crouched inside it that—

Lucius bites his tongue ferociously and manages to do nothing but bow at the waist. “My lord,” he murmurs.

The urge to vomit is right behind his teeth, and so is the urge to scream or collapse. But he will not. He _will_ not. Is he not the head of the Malfoy family? Is he not the man who courted a powerful, dangerous woman into becoming his wife, and dueled that woman’s maniac of a sister when she wasn’t convinced that Lucius would be “good enough” for Narcissa? He will not back down now.

The body that Lord Voldemort has taken has long, smooth limbs that are made of dark muscles, and a torso that reminds Lucius of nothing so much as a plucked chicken. The head is round and the eyes dark hollows that lead back into a realm of seething madness. The whole is draped with clotted blood. The Dark Lord opens his mouth, and his teeth are a wolf’s, and his breath violent with the reek of death.

“Lucius. You _dare_ to come before me now?”

Lucius promptly prostrates himself on the forest floor, which he probably should have done before now. At least it gives him an excuse to smother his nose and mouth, and turn his eyes away from the Dark Lord’s debased form. “Forgive me, my lord. I could not seek you out without violating the story that I was under the Imperius Curse—”

“You should have gone to prison for me, Lucius. That is what my _most loyal_ have done.”

 _Even Greyback?_ But Lucius says nothing, and only trembles, and whispers, “Forgive me.”

The Dark Lord makes his way to his feet. He moves towards Lucius in a loping, lurching gait the echoes the way Greyback moves. Lucius bows his head further and further, and closes his eyes. One rippled, corded hand that is bare flesh, without skin, comes to rest on his forehead, and fear and disgust travel through him.

“Perhaps you can be useful, at that,” the Dark Lord says finally. “Yes, perhaps. Tell me why Tarquinius did not come when I called for him, Lucius.”

Lucius, his eyes closed, replies dutifully, “Probably because he doubted my lord’s return. And because his son is good friends with the Potter boy now that Potter has been Sorted into Slytherin. He may consider himself bound by favors that he exchanged with Potter, or promises that he made to his son. I know that Potter stayed with him the summer between his second and third years.”

The Dark Lord makes an odd whistling sound. “And yet you have returned to me, Lucius, even though _your_ son is also Potter’s friend?”

Lucius takes a deep breath, and then, as the stench blows down his throat, wishes he hadn’t. “I do not allow my son to control my actions, my lord, the way Tarquinius does. Draco will be allowed to indulge himself for a little while, but in the end, he will be forced to learn better. I know that you are immortal, and that you are more powerful than any upstart boy—”

The Dark Lord’s talons score his forehead. Lucius shuts up. The Dark Lord has his hand in the perfect position to flay half Lucius’s face if he wants to.

“And what of your wife?”

Lucius remembers Narcissa returning from her strange visit to Severus’s house with the news that Severus has turned his back on Dumbledore. She advised caution, and waiting, and watching, especially as Draco’s friendship with the Boy-Who-Lived seems to be strengthening.

“She is more inclined to hold back, my lord, and think that she can choose between sides until the last moment. But I follow power. She will fall into line when I tell her to.”

“A _Black_ will fall into line when you tell her to.”

“In the end,” Lucius says, and reveals truths that he had not meant to, but he cannot forget the way the Dark Lord’s hand twists in the creases of his forehead, “Draco is my son, my lord, not hers. The boy is the key to her heart. There are times she has refused me and fought me, but she will not do that when she knows that Draco’s inheritance and future power in our society are under my command.”

The Dark Lord hisses with laughter, and finally takes his hand away from Lucius’s face. “I have another question for you, Lucius. What of Severus? He is the one who is the closest to the boy at the moment, and yet, I hear rumors that he has taken Potter into his household as _ward_.”

Lucius has chosen, and he cannot turn back. Yes, Severus has at times been a good ally to his family and one of Draco’s more effective teachers, and a good Head of House. But in the end, Lucius owes no loyalty except to the line of Malfoy, and those who can best benefit that line.

“Severus has indeed adopted the boy, my lord, in tandem with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. He has made it clear that he has turned his back on your cause…”

And the Dark Lord listens, and absorbs the information, and Lucius is witness to what happens when Greyback drags a deer into the clearing and the Dark Lord rends its flesh to rebuild his body. His revulsion is fading now, overpowered by his awe.

There is no magic that he understands like this, no way to transfer a human essence into such a body. That means that the Dark Lord has traveled Dark paths that no one else has ever trodden, or at least no one Lucius is aware of.

He is the most powerful. He will win the war. Lucius will join him, and Narcissa will become reconciled, and the elevated position that awaits Draco in the future will console him for the loss of his friend.


	19. The First Task

“Um, Harry, can I talk to you?”

Harry glances up and nods. But when he actually tries to move out of the circle of desks where they’ve been practicing the Bubble-Head Charm to get to Cedric, there’s a wall of Slytherins blocking the way. Well, Slytherins and one Hufflepuff. Zach is considering Cedric with an interested expression that Harry would worry about less if he wasn’t also twirling his wand between his fingers.

“Um, you lot,” Harry says, and then puts his hands on Blaise’s and Theo’s shoulders and pushes them gently out of the way when they won’t move. “You know Cedric,” he tells them, with a shake of his head, as he walks over to stand next to Cedric. “Stop acting as though he’s a rabid snake.”

“Snakes don’t get rabies.” Theo’s voice is gentle, and his eyes haven’t moved away from Cedric’s face. “But they do sometimes bite.”

Cedric turns pale. Harry wants to put his hand over his eyes, but he manages to refrain. Theo just gets more and more threatening every day, and it seems that more students outside of Slytherin know about his reputation than Harry thought. Or maybe his father’s reputation.

“I’m going to be _fine_ ,” Harry says, and chops his hand at Lion on his shoulder. “Winged snake that likes to bite, remember?”

“And who’s currently asleep,” says Zach, looking at him with a bright, non-reassuring smile.

“But who can wake up in less than a second.” Harry hardens his voice when it seems some of them actually will follow him out of the classroom to interrupt his conversation with Cedric. “ _Stay here._ ”

They freeze, and then sit down and pretend that’s what they were going to do all along. Harry frowns as he walks out next to Cedric. He’s accepted that he has to delegate some things, and that’s why he doesn’t try to teach everyone everything or defend them all the time anymore. But it’s still annoying as shit when he sees some of his manifestations of power as a leader.

Lion sniggers at him. Harry rolls his eyes. “ _Oh,_ now _you wake up_ ,” he tells him in Parseltongue.

Cedric makes a strangled noise. Harry glances at him and sees Cedric pressed back against the wall of the corridor, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Lion. Suddenly he seems younger than a sixth-year.

 _Well, maybe that’s okay, given how bloody_ old _I feel_ , Harry thinks, and sighs, and goes on without addressing Cedric’s obvious fear. “What is it, Diggory?”

“Diggory? I thought we were friends.”

“Fine. _Cedric_.” Harry is never going to get over what kinds of stupid things other students are hung up on. “What did you want to talk to me about?” He wants to invent an excuse about how he’s anxious to get back to the others because otherwise they’ll blow something up, but he can’t bring himself to insult his friends like that.

Cedric clears his throat. “I found out something about the First Task. I think Hagrid was trying to be fair. Or maybe he just really wanted to tell someone. I don’t think he’s very good at keeping secrets.”

Harry has to smile. “No, he’s not. All right. If you want to tell me, then you can, but I’m not going to be competing.”

“We have to get past a dragon for the First Task. They have a bunch of them that they’re keeping in the Forbidden Forest.”

Harry stares at him. Then he leans back on the wall opposite to Cedric and begins to laugh, helplessly.

“Harry? Are you all right?”

Harry doesn’t think he would manage to respond, but Lion is poking Harry’s cheek with his nose and asking the same thing in worried accents, so Harry finally does manage to speak. “It’s just—of course they are,” he chokes out, and shoves Lion back when he tries to poke at Harry again. “Of _course_ the bloody First Task is dragons! Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Uh, maybe because it isn’t _supposed_ to be?” Cedric shakes his head. “I never thought they would try so hard to kill us!”

“But you put your name in the Goblet,” Harry points out, not understanding.

Cedric flushes and lowers his eyes to the floor. “Yeah, I did. I just never thought—they know that you’re underage and you weren’t even supposed to be in the bloody Tournament! Why are they _doing_ this?”

 _Because they care more about school pride and a cup than they do about your survival,_ Harry thinks, but that might involve him in a debate about ethics if he actually said it, and he doesn’t want to debate. He just wants to get back to his friends. “Well, maybe they take it seriously that I’m not competing, so they set up a task the of-age students can pass but I can’t,” he says, and shrugs. He ignores the way Lion hisses at him for the movement.

“Maybe.” Cedric’s eyes are big and solemn. “I just wanted to tell you in case—you know, in case you wanted to know.”

“Thank you, honestly,” Harry says, and claps Cedric on the shoulder. “It was brave and fair of you to share that even if you don’t think I’m competing.” He smiles at Cedric and then turns and walks back to his friends.

Of course, they all immediately pretend that they weren’t listening to every word of the conversation. Harry rolls his eyes. “Can I just ask that you don’t spread that around the school? I don’t want Cedric to get in trouble.”

“Bloody _dragons_.” Ron’s face is pale. Harry wonders if he still had a dream of entering the Tournament or resented that he wasn’t chosen. If so, Cedric’s news has cured him. “I never thought…I just thought it was going to be, you know, ordinary spell-challenges.”

“If you looked up the history of the Tournament, you would know it isn’t,” Daphne says without looking away from her wand where she’s practicing the motion for the Bubble-Head Charm. “That’s one reason they didn’t hold the Tournament for two hundred years. Lots of people died trying to face down the creatures and the other challenges they chose.”

“Well, we can’t all be swots, Greengrass.”

“Some of us are _proud_ swots,” Hermione says, and sticks her nose in the air.

Harry grins as he watches the tension drain away and the brewing Slytherin-Gryffindor war simmer down into the usual tension that happens when people from different backgrounds are trying to get along. “Can anyone show me your progress on doing it wandlessly?”

*

Severus carefully studies the sheet of parchment in his hand. If anyone sees him, they might think it’s the _Daily Prophet_ or something else “worthy” of being read so carefully. In reality, it is an ordinary piece of parchment soaked in a potion that allows him to track Harry’s physical health and emotional state.

The parchment shows clean lines of blue and purple. Nothing alarming, and nothing that shows Harry is agitated. Severus folds the parchment to place in his pocket and glares when he catches Ludo Bagman’s eye. The man quickly turns away and adjusts the ridiculous bowtie he wears.

Severus is sitting in the stands where he can see the dragons that are being positioned for the Champions, still asleep. Nests of eggs are being set next to them, each ordinary except for a solitary golden gleam. Severus sighs in disgust. He understands the Task, but he still thinks it ridiculous. If anything, the golden egg is going to be something the dragon wants to hoard the _more_.

He is beyond proud that Harry will not be competing, and that apparently not even Black’s ridiculous arguments in favor of Gryffindor pride swayed him. Of course, Harry tried to tell Severus that Black made no such arguments, but Severus knows how to read that. The boy is trying to protect his godfather.

 _Never mind that Harry should not need to protect an adult from the consequences of his own actions,_ Severus thinks, and sneers at Black. Black returns the sneer. Lupin rolls his eyes.

They are seated higher up the stands, near the place that Mr. Diggory’s parents sit, along with a tall blond couple that Severus assumes are Delacours. If there is any sign of Krum’s people, he cannot see them.

He turns to face the field again as Bagman begins to announce the challenge. The Champions will enter a tent and draw miniatures of the possible dragons they can face from a small bag. Then they will have to retrieve the golden egg from the nest of the corresponding dragon.

Harry marches into the tent along with the rest of the Champions, his face like steel. Severus slowly sits back.

Bar something unexpected happening—which he has to admit is always a possibility, with Harry—there should be no reason for Harry to face down a dragon.

*

Bagman and Crouch tried to insist that Harry would participate after all, but Harry is participating only so far as he had to draw a dragon from the bag. He got a Hungarian Horntail, which is making all the others wince. Harry just shrugs. He didn’t bother researching dragons, although Cedric seemed to think he would. He doesn’t really know why a Horntail is so much worse than the others.

He has to stay inside the tent instead of going to sit in the stands. Harry rolls his eyes a little. “There’s no reason for me to be here, though,” he tries to tell Mr. Crouch. “My name was put into the Goblet by a supporter of Voldemort. I’m not _really_ competing.”

“You’re a Champion by the rules, and you’ll act like a Champion,” Crouch tells him.

Harry shrugs and leans back against the table where everyone else put their miniature dragons. Lion thinks they’re cute, and he’s winding back and forth among them. Harry listens to the cheers and the shrieks and the blasts of flame and hopes that the other Champions don’t manage to get themselves killed.

It really doesn’t seem like it’s long at all before Crouch is waving curtly at him. Harry marches out and faces the Hungarian Horntail. Lion zooms onto his shoulder.

The mother dragon crouches in front of him and bares her teeth. It might frighten Harry, if he was going to compete. He just stands there and lets the seconds tick past and the muttering get louder from the stands.

He rolls his eyes when a few people start booing him. It seems some of them didn’t take him seriously when he said he _wasn’t_ going to compete. Well, it’s their problem.

Lion rears up and tries to yell at the crowd for him. “ _My human said he doesn’t want to do the stupid thing!_ ”

Harry is smiling when he notices the intent stare the mother Horntail is giving Lion. She rumbles something that’s low but doesn’t sound like a threat. Lion rears up and spreads his wings, as if he thinks he can defend Harry. The Horntail spreads her wings in response.

Lion rears back as if he’s going to strike. The Horntail rears back at the same moment. Harry blinks. It still doesn’t feel threatening, despite the fact that people have started screaming behind him and Crouch is yelling that Harry should try to get the golden egg. It feels as if she’s trying to communicate something without really having the words for it.

Lion turns importantly to Harry. “ _She thinks I am a small dragon. She thinks that you must be no danger if you have a small dragon as a companion._ ”

Harry blinks again. “ _Ah, does she understand Parseltongue?_ ”

“ _No. She can project intent and she can make gestures. Perhaps it is similar to the way you humans sometimes speak with your hands when you cannot hear?_ ”

“ _How do you even know about that?”_

The mother Horntail interrupts their conversation by lying down in front of Harry. Her nose is huge, and close enough that Harry can feel the heat-tinted whoosh of her breath. He watches her carefully, his hands seemingly casually lowered at his sides but one really wrapped around his wand. It took him days to perfect that, but now everyone in their study group can look defenseless while really being armed.

The Horntail twitches her head to the side, and then looks from Lion to her nest. She does it twice before Harry gets the hint, and follows her gaze. Lion clears his throat at the same time. “ _I think she doesn’t think you’re a friend to small dragons. I thinks she thinks you actually are a mother dragon._ ”

Harry wants to roll his eyes, but it doesn’t seem a great idea when he’s literally about a meter from a dragon. “ _Great. So now what happens? She wants me to babysit her clutch or something?”_

 _“Um. Sort of._ ”

Harry stares at Lion, but in the meantime, the mother dragon is rolling one of her eggs forwards with a delicate touch Harry never would have thought a huge clawed foot was capable of. The egg lands in front of Harry. Harry frowns at it. He can see that it’s smaller than most of the others in the clutch, except the fake golden one, and it looks more black than grey, the way the others do. There are small red flecks in the shell.

Lion is swaying back and forth as the dragon rolls another egg forwards and lands it near the first one, as if to compare them. “ _I think something’s wrong with the small one. Maybe the dragonet is sick or something. Maybe she wants you to do something with it._ ”

Harry wants to roll his eyes. He wants to rub his face. He wants to laugh hysterically. He manages to just say, “ _What in the world does she think I can do with it_?”

“ _I don’t know, but you should do something soon. She’s starting to breathe fire harder._ ”

Harry takes a deep breath and steps close to the small egg, even though that brings him right up to the dragon. He can hear hoarse screaming from behind him and thinks that Professor Snape is probably losing it. Well, he’s sorry, but he thinks refusing the dragon might be even more dangerous right now.

So far, she’s only lying there, watching him. She started to lift her head while Lion was talking, but now, she watches him. Harry kneels down, wondering what the hell the right thing is and how he’ll know it when he sees it.

He puts his hands on the egg and gently pushes it over. Now it sounds like the Dragon-Keepers are screaming at him. Harry ignores them. This _still_ wasn’t his ideas and it _still_ isn’t his fault that everything went mad when he tried to keep it from going mad. He didn’t even want to go into the tent!

There’s something odd and cool about the underside of the egg. Harry frowns. He doesn’t know much about dragons, but he remembers Norbert in his first year, and how warm Hagrid had to keep the egg. It doesn’t seem like this egg ought to be _cold_ at all, not if the mother is doing her duty and keeping it as warm as she can.

He casts a Warming Charm on the bottom of the egg. He speaks it in Parseltongue, after a moment of wondering if that’s the right thing to do.

A soft glow spreads out from the end of his wand, instead of the charm taking effect invisibly, the way it ought to. Harry sucks in a sharp breath and jerks back, suddenly sure that he’s done something horribly wrong and this wasn’t the best idea after all.

“ _Too late,_ ” Lion announces gleefully.

The glow wraps around the egg and makes it shine like a sunrise. Harry has to cover his eyes with one hand. The colors are radiant, gold and peach with a hint of blue, beautiful, but overwhelming when he’s this close.

Then, abruptly, they fade. Harry opens his eyes and looks suspiciously at the egg. It seems to have got rid of the flecks of red and be a more normal cement-grey color—well, normal for a Hungarian Horntail egg, anyway, at least if he can judge based on the other eggs in the nest. Its size hasn’t changed, of course.

But the mother dragon shows no desire to take it back. Instead, she turns around and rolls the normal egg majestically back to her nest. She does flick her tail at the fake golden egg and knock it contemptuously out of the way. Harry can’t blame her, not when she has to be smart enough to recognize the difference between it and the rest of them.

He looks back at the small egg near his knee, and this time does notice something different. There appears to be a dark smudge on the side of it. Harry winces. He’s sure he’s done something wrong, and the mother will turn around and take it away from him any second.

Then the dark smudge _grows_. Harry stares, his brow furrowing, and it’s only when it extends a little further that he understands.

That’s not a smudge. It’s a crack.

Harry gets on his feet and stumbles away, but Lion says sharply, “ _I think she wants you to stay near it.”_

Harry glances up, gets a glare from literally fiery eyes, and swallows as he eases back down near the egg. Apparently, he has to stay here. He holds out his hands as if he could piece the egg back together, but it’s already too late for that.

The egg falls apart with a noise like a waterfall crashing into a pool, and the halves spin away from each other. Harry stares at the dragonet squirming on the ground—but not for long. In seconds, it gets its feet underneath it and turns its head, focusing hard on him.

Something reaches out and falls over Harry. It feels as though he’s being smothered in a warm net made of dew and feathers. Harry gasps, but he can still breathe, and now he seems to be getting impressions from the dragonet the way Lion described getting impressions from the mother dragon.

One of those impressions is _female_. The new hatchling is definitely a she, not an it.

The other one is _Mama!_

Harry stares down at the dragonet as she scrambles over and leans against his thighs, making a sound like a lorry purring. Then he slowly turns his head, and of all the people shouting at him from the stands, his eyes lock on Professor Snape’s face.

_I am in so much fucking trouble._


	20. Not Screaming

Severus is not screaming. He is very carefully not screaming. Neither is he voicing the vicious taunts that want to break through when he sees the stunned expressions on Black’s and Lupin’s faces.

His only comfort at the moment is that they expected this no more than he did.

Severus walks at a measured pace down from the stands and approaches Harry. By all rights, he should have a harder time getting near him. Harry has been surrounded by Dragon-Keepers, Tournament officials, Maxime, Karkaroff, Dumbledore, and reporters since the moment the dragon hatched. Hagrid is also there, but standing deferentially, or at least as deferentially as he can loom, off to the side. He looks fascinated.

 _He would be,_ Severus thinks.

The emotion he’s feeling, doubtless showing through the expression on his face, is what does the work for him. Reporters move out of the way first, then Bagman. In seconds, Severus is standing right next to Harry and planting a ferocious hand on his shoulder.

Harry winces. Severus eases the clutch of his hand. He not only has an audience of humans who would probably love a chance to report Severus being too rough with his ward. He has an audience of a very interested hatchling dragon who is sitting back on its hind legs and staring up at him.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry whispers.

“I know,” Severus says back. He means for his voice to be calm, but it still sounds like the crack of doom and makes Harry wince again. “I am very aware that you did all you could.” He tried to keep Harry from having to go to the Champions’ tent at all, but Crouch showed up with Aurors to make sure Harry complied.

“So.” Harry stares at the ground for a moment longer, then up, and Severus’s gut clenches in dread at the sight of the bright, sparkling smile he wears. “Can I keep her?”

Severus merely holds his glare. If he has anything to say about it, Harry will _not_ be keeping a Hungarian Horntail hatchling. The thing is already the size of a large dog, at least if you take the sprawling tail and folded legs into consideration.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, my boy.” Albus’s smile is gentle and kind, and Severus hates both the fact that he’s forced to agree with the Headmaster and that he’ll never be able to make the smile that kind. “Hogwarts really isn’t, mmm, _provisioned_ for the keeping of dragons.”

“Not to mention that having this one would give the boy quite the unfair advantage in the Tournament,” Igor says, bobbing his head like the fool he is. “We hardly want that.” At least Severus’s glare is enough to wilt the man in his nodding.

“I’m not going to _compete_ in the Tournament.”

Harry’s voice has an edge that Severus recognizes. He heard it often enough this summer about Occlumency lessons. He intervenes hastily, before Harry can do something that would bring the Headmaster’s wrath down on all their heads. “The dragon might also be dangerous to other students, and to Harry himself. What would happen if he did something that displeased her?”

“I think he should keep her,” rumbles Hagrid, and wipes at his eyes with what he probably images is a surreptitious motion. “Poor little thing! Her mum couldn’t hatch her, so Harry did, so she has to stay!”

“That really _won’t_ be possible,” says the tallest Dragon-Keeper present, a woman with braided black hair who looks as though she’s about to be ill. “There’s no way to teach the boy everything he would have to know about a dragonet right now. And he _certainly_ can’t keep a Hungarian Horntail in a school, or in this climate!”

“I could stay and help him,” offers another of the Dragon-Keepers, a man whose voice sounds familiar for some reason. Severus glances at him and then turns it into an incredulous scowl. Who decided that _Charlie bloody Weasley_ could be a Dragon-Keeper? And did they have their head examined?

“Charlie, this is _not funny_.”

Weasley is doing a bad job of hiding his smile when he glances at Harry. “Look at the way they’re bonded, though, Irene. You can feel it as well as I can. She can’t talk to him like that snake of his, but she’s imprinted.”

Severus feels as though the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. “Imprinted?” He isn’t familiar with dragons being able to do that, but he has heard of it with geese and ducks and the like. It means they won’t let their “mother” figure go.

It means there may be no way to detach Harry from this dragon.

As if she knows that they are thinking about her, the Horntail yawns and curls up with her head on Harry’s foot. She seems to watch them with a knowing mockery that makes Severus long to curse something. Harry looks down at her, and his face is a confused mixture of tenderness and exhaustion.

“Of course Harry cannot keep the Horntail,” Dumbledore says.

“She isn’t going to give us a choice.” Harry speaks quietly, but everyone falls silent to hear him. Severus frowns. He doesn’t think Harry would deliberately misuse that power, but it seems they may have to add lessons on the _proper_ use of it to the ones that he teaches Harry outside the classroom.

Once they have decided what to do about the dragon, of course.

“She is the one who does not have a choice.” Albus is playing the polite, charming pillar of common sense that he does so well when he wants to. “Horntails need the company of other dragons, warmth, the ability to fly freely, and large prey. Hogwarts offers none of those things.”

Charlie Weasley laughs. Actually _laughs_. Severus jerks and turns around to stare at him. Despite knowing the youngest two Weasley children are on Harry’s side when it comes to the Headmaster, it’s shocking to hear another member of their family sound as if he’s about to defy Albus.

“She can have warmth here, in front of the fireplace, and eat small portions of food for now,” Weasley says, shaking his head. “It may be that when she’s older she’ll need the company of other dragons, but right now, a dragonet who has a parent to herself will be _thrilled_. It rarely happens in the wild. And the imprinting bond usually lessens with age, as well. When she’s perhaps a year old, perhaps two, she’ll be ready to come to a sanctuary. Right now, you might as well try to move Hogwarts itself.”

“Infant dragons are readily susceptible to Stunners that do not need multiple people to cast them,” Albus says, and draws his wand.

There’s a loud noise behind him. Absurdly, it reminds Severus of nothing so much as someone sucking a Muggle drink through a straw.

The Horntail mother’s head lifts slowly into view. Her eyes and nostrils are glowing, and her jaws are slightly open. Severus is grateful only that he cannot see all the way down her throat to the flames gathering there. That is the only thing he _has_ to be grateful for.

“The mother can sense that you’re hostile to her hatchling,” Irene, the tall Dragon-Keeper, says, and glances between the dragon and the Headmaster. “Please put your wand away, slowly.”

Albus does, but he doesn’t look nearly as shaken as any sane man—even one just _playing_ sane—should when a dragon nearly breathed on him. “Of course Harry cannot keep the dragon.”

“Not permanently, of course not,” Weasley agrees. “But as I said, the imprinting bond will get weaker as she gets older. Until then? Hogwarts is hosting a baby dragon, Headmaster.”

Albus shakes his head. “It cannot.”

“Why not, Headmaster?”

“Because of the danger to the other students,” Albus says without hesitation. “Harry is a frequent target of pranks and curses. The dragon would attack them, and then they would suffer through no fault of their own.”

“There are spells that can blunt her claws and teeth, and bind her fire.” Irene looks as though she doesn’t want to be on Weasley’s side, and also as though she thinks she has no choice but to land there. She draws her wand. “I’ll cast them before I leave.”

“As for the people playing pranks and shooting curses at Harry?” Weasley shrugs. “Tell them to stop, Headmaster. She can’t kill them with the spells my colleague here will cast, but she can jump at them and land on them. It’s not going to be any more dangerous than that winged snake Harry is already going around with.”

Severus turns, caught in the grip of a vast dizziness, and looks at Harry, who has been suspiciously silent throughout all this. Albus is starting another argument that Severus thinks will succeed exactly as well as all the others, which means, not at all. But what does Harry think about this?

*

_I don’t know anything about taking care of a dragon. What if I hurt her?_

Harry realizes that he can’t get out of it, that he hatched this dragonet somehow and he has to take care of her. And it’s good to know that Charlie, who was the one who took Hagrid’s dragon, will be around to help him do that. And the other one is casting the spells that will make the other students safe from the dragonet.

That should be enough to satisfy him. But Harry’s heart is still beating in a fast, frightened way.

He could still hurt her. He could still do something that would make her want to leave. Or one of the students in Slytherin who targeted him could hurt her instead. Maybe Greyback. Maybe Voldemort.

Harry is so tired of failing people. He wants to protect his friends and Lion forever. He wants to make sure that no one around him ever gets hurt again. He knows he can’t do that.

And it’s driving him mental.

He looks up and asks, “What will she eat while she’s this young? How do I have to feed her?”

Charlie turns around and smiles at him. He looks an awful lot like Ron, although Harry thinks Ron might not believe him; he thinks Charlie is brave and exciting and kind of wild. “It’s always meat, with dragons, but she’ll need blood, too. It should be hot, but not exactly cooked. I’ll show you the spells that warm it up.”

“Where exactly is Harry going to get meat and blood?” Dumbledore interrupts. He sounds so condescending. Harry wonders if he was like that his first two years, too, and Harry just never noticed. “Surely he can’t purchase it.”

“I have enough gold to spend it on that,” Harry says, a little irritated. He catches Sirius’s eye, and Sirius is still looking shocked, but he grins and nods encouragingly. Harry relaxes. Sirius will let him spend whatever he needs. “I’ll buy—well, there has to be food for dangerous magical creatures, right?”

“I feed the thestrals on it,” Hagrid breaks in eagerly. “Let me help you raise her, Harry! I’d love to!”

Harry smiles back at Hagrid. He’s probably the only one who’s completely happy about Harry having the dragonet. Well, other than the dragonet herself. “Okay. But I can’t take all your meat, Hagrid. If you tell me where you get it, then I can start paying you back for it.”

“Just let me spend time with the cute little thing, and that’s payment enough!” Hagrid bends down and gets close to the dragonet, who eyes him with a kind of amused tolerance. Or at least Harry thinks that’s what he’s feeling from her. “Who’s a little darling?” Hagrid coos.

The dragonet looks up and cocks her head, as if approving. Then she projects an image to Harry that hits him so strongly he chokes a little. He can actually _see_ it like he’s watching a film in his head or something.

“She wants you to scratch her chin,” he tells Hagrid.

Hagrid has to take out his handkerchief and blow his nose loudly before he can. Harry turns around and faces the Headmaster. Sirius is grinning now, and even Remus looks a little more relaxed. Hermione is horrified, from what he can see of her face. Ron doesn’t look as if he knows how to look. Theo is blank-faced, and Blaise’s eyebrows just have a permanent home near the top of his head.

He doesn’t really dare to look at Professor Snape.

“I can communicate with her,” he tells everyone. “She’s a baby, and she can’t be on her own. There’s just no way that I can abandon her and let her, I don’t know, stumble around on her own. So I’ll keep her.”

“I am sorry, my dear boy, but it cannot be,” Dumbledore says firmly.

“Are you worried that she’s going to attack other people, or that she’s going to _keep_ other people from attacking me?” Harry snaps.

Dumbledore blinks and says nothing. Harry wonders if he’s finally stolen the man’s words. He reaches down and touches the dragon’s face. She leans into him, which is something, considering that Hagrid is still scratching her under the chin. And he doesn’t look as if he wants to stop right now, either.

“I think I’ll name her Chaos,” Harry murmurs.

The mother dragon gives a snort that makes Harry tense in alarm, but Chaos leans against his legs and projects strong approval of such a powerful name that travels over him like a tongue licking him. Then she makes his own stomach rumble with her hunger.

“Um, can you get some of the meat that you give the thestrals right now, Hagrid?” he asks. _Whatever thestrals are._

*

“It would truly do no good to scold you.”

Harry watches him from beneath his fringe, and says nothing. Severus holds back a sigh when he sees the wariness in his face. It seems it took the addition of only one small dragon to set them back several steps.

“Did you think I would make you get rid of her?” Severus asks quietly, glancing down at Chaos. She’s asleep at the moment, but her tail wraps powerfully around Harry’s legs, halting any attempt to move somewhere else. She’s breathing deeply with snores that break out of her nostrils without any flicker of flame, thank Merlin. The Dragon-Keepers’ spells work better on dragonets than adults, it seems.

“Yes, sir.”

Severus glances at Harry. “Why?”

“Because you originally said so. And you don’t like anything that endangers me, and I know that you were doing your best to keep me from having to compete in the Tournament at all.” Harry shrugs, and then reaches down and pets Chaos when she stirs. “This is both.”

“I—am sorry for what I said. And I know you intend to keep her and protect her,” Severus guesses. He glances at the dragon again. Harry’s reasoning is sound. Severus would do anything he could to keep Harry from being exposed to more gossip, rumors, lies, and jealousy. Chaos will do nothing to keep him from any of it, no matter how much of a protection she might be against physical dangers.

“I can’t abandon someone who depends on me.”

Severus winces when he sees how deep the shine in Harry’s eyes goes. It’s not a warm glow or a nostalgic one. It’s one that says he remembers his life at the Dursleys’ all too well and he would do anything to keep someone else from feeling the same.

It’s the glow of a fanatic.

“She is here, and we have to deal with her,” Severus says. “I understand that. But please consider coming and _speaking_ to me if someone threatens her, or you because of her. Don’t assume that you can handle everything on your own.”

Harry nods, but his face is blank and cool, his glance oblique. This _has_ set them back several steps, but perhaps, Severus realizes, not because Harry truly thinks Severus will try to order him to give up Chaos now. He’s simply too consumed with thoughts of protecting the young dragon, the way he would be if any of his friends depended on him for help.

And he realizes that Severus might try to make him think about other things.

Severus grimaces. He supposes the only thing he can truly keep doing is helping Harry, working with him, guiding him to think about his own needs and mental health in gentle ways instead of forcing him.

That he suspects that is exactly the sort of advice Healer Lyndell would give does not ease Severus’s grief.

*

Theo watches how Harry’s face changes when he walks into the Slytherin common room with a winged snake on one shoulder and a sleeping dragon’s head on the other as he cradles her in his arms, and everyone stands up and starts applauding him.

 _He didn’t expect that at all,_ Theo concludes with what he’s sure is accuracy as Harry accepts a butterbeer from one sixth-year and a seat near the fire from another one, and then starts a cautious conversation with Millicent. _He thought he would be an outcast in the House, maybe because people would think he was getting some kind of special favoritism._

Instead, most of the Slytherins have acted in the way Theo expected: they know that at the moment, the wind is blowing due Harry, and they’ve reoriented themselves to follow that wind.

Theo fully intends to take advantage of that moment and crystallize the advantage for Harry in a way that he would never think of doing for himself. Then again, the fact that he wouldn’t think of doing it for himself is part of the reason that Theo follows him.

And another is the grim exhaustion hiding behind Harry’s mask, the way he answers questions with deflections and questions as often as he actually replies, and how he turns as if he’s shielding Chaos with his body when someone tries to get too close to her.

_He would protect any of us the same way._

_He deserves some shielding, too._


	21. Incorporating Chaos

“I don’t feel safe with a dragon in the classroom, Professor Snape.”

Severus looks down his nose at the Gryffindor girl who has her hand up and apparently thinks, despite years of experience to the contrary, that large eyes work on him. “I would describe you as in far more danger from your own general incompetence, Miss Brown,” he snaps, and then turns around and goes over to see what Harry _is_ doing.

He’s working quietly, is what he’s doing. Chaos lies at his feet, more noticeable but no louder than Lion. She’s staring at Harry’s stirring rod as it moves. Perhaps she would be more active if there were any fleshly ingredients among the contents of today’s potion, but there are not.

“I expect you to alert me at once if your dragonet does something, Mr. Potter,” Severus says, the flimsy façade that he has to keep up to answer student worries.

“Yes, sir.” Harry doesn’t take his eyes away from his cauldron. The crease between his brows has deepened in the past few days. Severus can think of several people who would rejoice in having a baby dragon (Black, for one). He worries that the dragonet’s hatching has added no joy to Harry’s life.

Severus turns his worry into moving about the classroom, coldly taking points from Gryffindor, dismissing the effort Weasley is making with Finnigan, rolling his eyes at Longbottom’s disaster-in-the-making, and spending nearly a minute telling Granger why the color of her potion is off. Granger only nods, her eyes calculating. Severus does not mind that as long as she uses her brain to keep Harry safe.

Severus is turning around when an explosion of purple goes up from near the center of the classroom.

“He sabotaged my potion!” Brown is shrieking even before Severus can cast a spell to remove the fumes and smoke from the general vicinity of the cauldron. “Potter sabotaged my potion!”

Severus wants to roll his eyes. He manages to avoid it. He does clear the air, and sees that Brown’s cauldron is a twisted, smoldering ruin. He raises his brows. He would defy even Longbottom to make that much of a mess. Longbottom, in fact, is clutching the sides of his cauldron as though worrying that it might imitate Brown’s by proximity.

“Miss Brown, do stop bleating like a particularly agitated goat and move aside.”

The girl does, although she continues to glare at Harry behind Severus’s back. Severus bends down. It doesn’t take him long to find the problem, and a swift swish of his wand that brings up an image confirms it.

“Miss Brown, turn around and tell me what this is.”

“Sabotage,” mutters Brown, still glaring at Harry.

“You will _turn_ , Miss Brown.”

She sighs heavily as she turns, as if she can’t believe that her evil Potions professor is wasting her time. She stiffens when she sees the image floating in front of Severus, made of overlapping layers of crimson and purple. She looks up at him, opens her mouth, and then closes it.

“Your cauldron had a crack near the bottom when you began to brew the potion,” Severus says. He never relinquishes Brown’s eyes as he floats the image into the air, so that all the students can see it. “What have I told you about brewing in cauldrons with cracks in them?”

“Not to,” Brown mutters, her whole body tense with anger.

“Two points from Gryffindor for your insolence, Miss Brown. Look me in the eye and tell me how the crack happened.”

Brown isn’t part of Harry’s study group and doesn’t know of what happens to students when they look a Legilimens in the eye. It’s simplicity itself for Severus to slip into her mind and discover the truth.

Brown found the crack before class, as Severus suspected the first moment the light sparked, but she said nothing. She put it on the fire and went right ahead, because she wanted to cause trouble for Harry.

Severus takes a step back and shakes his head in disgust. Brown didn’t seem to hate Harry so much last year, after his Sorting into Slytherin. It must be that she still believes, along with some other Gryffindors, that Harry put his name in the Goblet. “Detention, Miss Brown.”

“What _for_?”

“For insolence, not reporting the problem, and accusing another student of tampering with your cauldron and your potion when you _knew_ there was a problem,” Severus says softly. He holds her eyes for a moment, then inclines his head and moves away.

He cannot protect Harry as much as he wishes. He must act like a professor in the classroom, and not a parent.

But he can ensure that other students do not get away with the calculated unfairness that they did in Harry’s second year, and that Brown’s little trick is an admirable—for a certain value of the word—example of.

*

“Ah, Mr. Potter. Have you considered coming to speak to me?”

Harry turns around. Chaos is sitting on up on her haunches and staring intently at Karkaroff. Harry would take some warning from that even if Professor Snape hadn’t told him. As it is, he manages to smile, or thinks he does, and show no warmth at all, and says only, “I can’t, sir, sorry. I have an appointment with Headmaster Dumbledore right now.”

Snape isn’t going to be happy when he hears that, either, but Harry has Chaos and Lion with him. They’ll both act to defend him if Dumbledore tries anything physical. Harry at least _thinks_ he’s going to be okay. Not that he’s sure if that will matter to Snape.

But, well, Harry’s going anyway. Because of what Dumbledore’s letter that just showed up on his bed this evening said.

“Perhaps I can come with you, then?” Karkaroff offers, pacing beside Harry as he makes his way towards the gargoyle. “I have to speak with Headmaster Dumbledore myself. Business relating to the Tournament.” He looks over at Harry as if he thinks Harry’s going to jump and squeak when he hears the word. Or maybe he’s just trying to watch Chaos.

 _You and everyone else._ Harry is glad that he could adopt Chaos so she could live, but he hates the way everyone gapes at him _again_. He isn’t that remarkable! Look somewhere else!

“I suppose he’s probably waiting for both of us, then, sir,” Harry says politely. He doesn’t like Karkaroff much, but at least if someone else is with him when he’s speaking to Dumbledore, then Dumbledore can’t do something like try to enslave Harry’s mind or his soul, which Snape always seems to be afraid of.

“Ah, I didn’t exactly inform Albus of what hour I was coming, young Mr. Potter.” Karkaroff tilts his head. “But perhaps we can make use of this time anyway,” he adds, as the gargoyle opens and the slow-moving staircase appears in front of him. “I know that you have very strong Slytherin traits.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harry isn’t going to put down his House in front of anyone else. But he doesn’t really know what Karkaroff is referring to. His Parseltongue? Surely not the way he hatched Chaos. He’s already been told off by Snape (and to an extent by Blaise and Theo) for being a bloody reckless Gryffindor.

“The appreciation for what must be done, regardless of anything else. That is a quality that would serve you well at Durmstrang, Mr. Potter.”

Harry just shrugs, keeping his eyes aimed up the stairs, and says, “Thanks, sir, but I belong at Hogwarts.”

“Simply something to keep in mind,” Karkaroff says. Now he sounds casual, which makes Harry want to look at him again. But he grits his teeth and manages to remain silent. The staircase is almost over with, anyway.

They step out into Dumbledore’s office, and he twitches a little. Harry thinks Karkaroff was probably right about Dumbledore not expecting _him_. But then the Headmaster just smiles and says, “I’ll ask the house-elves for more tea,” before he bends down and puts his head in his fireplace.

Harry sits down carefully in his chair. For some reason, Chaos is staring at Fawkes and rearing up on her hind legs, her wings spread. Fawkes only studies her, chirps once, and then goes back to sleeping with his head under his own wing. Chaos finally falls back onto all fours, and Harry sighs in relief and strokes her back to keep her calm.

“Ah. You have had some trouble controlling your dragon, Mr. Potter?”

“Oh, no, sir. She’s calm all the time, unless she’s in an environment she thinks is hostile.”

Karkaroff coughs like he’s trying to muffle a laugh. “Should we conduct our business first, Albus? Then I can leave you and Mr. Potter to have the conversation by yourselves that you seem to have requested.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Harry says instantly. “I know that you supported me when I said I was telling the truth, so you must know I have nothing to hide. You can stay during our conversation if you want.”

He doesn’t think Dumbledore will say much in front of Karkaroff, truth be told. But if they have to put off the conversation until later, then maybe Harry can think of something else to do besides just going along with what Dumbledore wants.

Dumbledore smiles at him. “Are you sure about that, Harry? You know what I have to say concerns very private matters. Matters that might even touch on the honesty of the person who brewed the Veritaserum you took.”

Harry shrugs a little. “Then we’ll be all be speaking the truth, won’t we, sir?”

Karkaroff says nothing, but just sits there looking intensely curious. Dumbledore nods and says, “Very well,” and Harry tries not to panic. Lion is hissing softly at him, but Chaos is silent. She has her head on his foot the way she likes to curl up when she’s full, but Harry knows from her tension that she’s not asleep.

“You see,” Dumbledore tells Karkaroff, “twenty years ago, I was more biased than I should have been. Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses have an ancient rivalry, and I was a Gryffindor myself. Several Gryffindor students played an infamous prank in which they tried to set up a Slytherin student, the same age as themselves, to be murdered. I gave them a pass, and—” He sighs. “I’ve regretted my actions ever since.”

 _You only regret not doing everything you could to blackmail everyone,_ Harry thinks, and then has to look down. He knows that his Occlumency isn’t good enough to stand up to Dumbledore trying to get through his shields.

“That seems like an infamous thing to do, yes,” Karkaroff agrees, with no emotion except politeness in his voice.

“One of those Gryffindors grew up, and, I thought, did worse when he was an adult. Thankfully, I have been able to see that he is innocent of that particular crime. But I couldn’t help but wonder why I was so ready to believe the worst of him, and that led me to interrogate my own motives and past judgments. It was, of course, because I had seen first-hand that he was capable of murder when he was younger. Thoughtless murder, but still murder.”

Harry clasps his hands and wills them not to shake. Chaos opens her eyes.

“Oh?” Karkaroff asks.

“Yes. And it has occurred to me that _I_ was the biased adult who ensured that he was not up on murder charges as a youngster. I think that I should bring him before the Wizengamot now and have him tried. It would only be fair, and it would go some distance to making up for my own biases and the harm I did the young Slytherin man whom those Gryffindors bullied.”

Harry clenches his hands in a fold of his robes where they can’t be seen. Karkaroff is looking at him, but his face is opaque. Dumbledore is the one with the sorrowful smile and the twinkling eyes.

He’s the one that Harry, in a sudden burst of freeing emotion, _hates_.

“But of course,” Dumbledore goes on in a soft voice, “bringing up on those charges now would involve many more people than it would have if he was tried when he was a student. Mr. Potter knows him the best, so I am going to ask him what he thinks. Whether those charges would be fair or not.”

It’s the same threat Harry knew it would be from the moment he read Dumbledore’s letter. Yes, he’s going to wreck Sirius’s life and Harry’s and maybe even Remus’s and Professor Snape’s if he drags this forwards.

And the last line of the letter told Harry what Dumbledore wants in return for keeping this quiet. _If someone could tell me what the best course of action would be, a Gryffindor who was re-Sorted into Slytherin and understands the unique perspectives of both Houses, then perhaps we could let the charges drop. We often grow our wisdom through talking to each other._

Dumbledore wants to be in control of Harry’s life again. It’s so plain Harry wants to laugh at the thought that he might once not have understood it. But then again, when he trusted Dumbledore, he wouldn’t have.

“Do you see, Harry?” Dumbledore murmurs. “You know Sirius. He’s been your guardian for months now. Do you want to tell me what you think would happen if I drew this forwards into the light? Would it be justice, or should we let bygones be bygones?”

Harry looks up. It suddenly occurs to him that something else is going on here, too. Dumbledore wants to use this to threaten _Snape_ , even. He wants to bury the matter and make sure Snape can never bring Sirius to trial.

Harry doesn’t think Snape really _would_ , not after being Harry’s guardian along with Sirius. But he also knows that Snape probably wouldn’t like having the choice to accuse Sirius of the crime being taken away from him.

Karkaroff is silent, his eyes flitting between Harry and Dumbledore. Dumbledore’s smile grows just a little deeper. “Well? What do you think, Harry? Do we understand each other?”

Harry opens his mouth, feeling sick. He doesn’t want this, the last thing he wants is to do this, but the thought of Sirius’s life turning into a bleak wasteland and Snape hating Harry for making a decision for him is even worse.

A small snort from the side distracts him. Harry looks over gratefully, wondering what he’s going to see, glad to put off making the decision for even one more moment.

Chaos is reared on her hind legs and examining one of the Headmaster’s bookshelves. Harry didn’t even notice her pulling her chin off his foot, he was so upset. She glances at him, and small flames come out of her nose.

“Get her away from there!” Dumbledore’s voice isn’t so kind now. “Those books are priceless!”

Chaos snorts. Even smaller flames come out, ones that are just large enough to tickle the spines of the books. Harry smells singeing leather.

“ _Mr. Potter_.”

 _Suddenly he forgets my first name when he has books to rescue,_ Harry thinks, and holds his hand out. “Chaos. Come here.”

Chaos projects an impression at him. It’s of two dragons reared up so that they face each other, their claws resting on each other’s throats, and flames billowing out of their mouths. Harry frowns. It’s a weird image. It looks as if the dragons can’t actually breathe out without killing each other.

Oh. _Oh_.

Harry turns around and stares at Dumbledore for a second. Then he says firmly, “Sometimes you have to do what adds up to the greatest good, right, sir? Even if it’s not something you want to personally do.”

Dumbledore hasn’t taken his eyes from the books. “Of course, Harry. Of course you do.”

“Like, for example,” Harry says, “you might have to let a past injustice go because it would be worse to tear up someone’s life now. And you might have to call back your pet dragon even though she hates that.”

Dumbledore snaps his head around to look at him. At the same moment, Chaos trots across the floor of the office and rubs her head against Harry’s ankle. Harry thinks she might actually purr if she could.

“You speak as though those two things are equivalent, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore says a second later, his eyes narrowed.

“Well.” Harry takes a deep breath, and the plunge. “They could be.”

Dumbledore stares at him in utter silence. Karkaroff is wide-eyed, too, but Harry can’t make out anything about the expression on his face. Fawkes is watching both of them, and abruptly trills, throwing back his head.

“What do you mean?” Dumbledore whispers.

“That they could be,” Harry says, and holds his gaze.

Dumbledore doesn’t even try to use Legilimency on him. Harry is sure that he’s probably too shocked to. He strokes the back of Chaos’s humped spine, which is already bigger than it used to be, and waits.

“It could be,” Dumbledore finally agrees. His magic is old and slow and angry as he stares at Harry with narrow eyes. “Then— _go_.”

Harry nods and stands up and walks out. He’ll think about it later, what it means that he challenged Dumbledore and won, and Karkaroff heard the _whole_ thing. For right now, he’s just relieved that he’s out of it, and he can tell Sirius and Snape about this and try to prepare them in case Dumbledore goes after that old prank again.

Karkaroff says to Dumbledore before the door shuts behind Harry, “I think you have _two_ dragons in this school, Albus.”

Chaos doesn’t stop prancing all the way down the stairs.


	22. Spinning Plots

“Wow. I never really thought he would do that to me. Wow.”

Harry sees Snape opening his mouth out of the corner of his eye. Harry frowns at him. Snape manages to close his mouth, even though Harry can see how difficult this is for him. Harry nods his thanks and turns back to Sirius.

Sirius is wandering around Snape’s office with his head bowed and his hands in the pockets of his robes. Every now and then he reaches out and picks up a vial or a cauldron and puts it back down. Harry knows that’s getting on Professor Snape’s nerves, too. He tries to clear his throat and make Sirius pay attention to him instead of Snape’s office.

“I think Professor Dumbledore is so desperate to control me that he’ll try anything. He doesn’t really care who it hurts. He probably even thinks it’s a good thing, because that means that you and Professor Snape both won’t be in the way if he tries to control me.”

“I know why he is so desperate,” Professor Snape says quietly, reaching out a hand to stroke Lion, who is coiled on the table next to him. “He believes that you are the key to defeating the Dark Lord. Nothing else will convince him otherwise.”

“But if Harry gets upset and acts against him, then what the hell does _he_ get?” Sirius spins around and kicks a cabinet. Harry hears Snape’s hiss and decides he has to get Sirius out of here. “What?”

“He thought he had me trapped. And it’s desperation that made him think it would work. Or maybe he didn’t even care if it would backfire and make me hate him at this point, as long as it had a small chance of working.” Harry sighs and moves forwards when Sirius looks like he’s going to kick the cabinet again. “Sirius, can you go back home now? I don’t want Dumbledore finding out you’re here.”

Sirius nods and gives Harry a strained smile that quickly becomes a real one when he glances down at Chaos, sprawled innocently under the table. “You’re a real Marauder. I’m proud of you, Harry.”

“Thanks.” Harry smiles at him and manages to maintain the smile until Sirius vanishes through the Floo again. Then he turns around and studies Professor Snape uncertainly. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine. And I don’t want you to think that you need to take care of my moods, Harry. You are the child and I am the guardian, if you remember.”

Harry just nods. It won’t stop him from trying to make sure that his guardians don’t bump up against each other, and from the way Snape’s eyes narrow, maybe he realizes that. Harry is just about to say something else when Lion abruptly rears back and flaps his wings, and Chaos lifts her head.

Harry turns warily around. There’s a shimmering point of light in the air that’s getting brighter and more intense. Snape already has his wand in his hand, and he moves in front of Harry. Harry moves off to the side. It’s so Chaos has room to attack, but Snape still gives him an exasperated look.

The light snaps into itself and turns green from white. Snape abruptly dives in front of Harry. Harry goes down wondering why, and then deciding he knows why. That light probably reminds Snape of the color of the Killing Curse, and he thinks he’s defending Harry from it.

But it reminds Harry of something else, and he gently pushes Snape aside and shakes his head. “It looks like their scales. It’s the Speakers.”

It’s Asheren who tumbles into the office a moment later, making Snape hiss a curse. Harry grabs his wand and brings it down so that Snape’s curse can’t hit Asheren. He supposes that Snape has forgotten how big Asheren, who always comes in serpent form, is, at least five meters. Harry just nods and asks in Parseltongue, “ _What is it_?”

Asheren turns his head and scents at Chaos, then whips back to face Harry. “ _It is as we thought. You have adopted a dragon and you have not contacted us!_ ”

“I was busy—”

“ _You should have contacted us the minute you had a free chance!”_

“ _I was busy_ ,” Harry echoes, in Parseltongue this time. He puts a hand on Chaos’s head when she starts to stand up. If he’s reading her body language right, it’s to inspect Asheren, not attack him, but it’s still not something he really wants to encourage. “ _And anyway, why does it matter to you so much? I’m sure that I can train Chaos to lie off to the side while you train me._ ” If the Speakers even want to keep up the lessons. They haven’t happened on anything like a regular basis since he returned to Hogwarts.

Asheren slithers right up to him and stares him in the face, something that doesn’t happen a lot with the Speakers when they’re not in at least partially human form. “ _We are not letting you remove yourself from us._ ”

Harry narrows his eyes. “ _That sounds a lot like a threat. Did you_ intend _to threaten me, Asheren_?” Out of the corner of his eye, he can catch a glimpse of Professor Snape, readying his wand. It wouldn’t surprise Harry if he’s learned to recognize threatening sounds in Parseltongue, even if he can’t understand it.

Asheren coils his body back. “ _Of course not_ ,” he says. “ _I only mean that you are at the center of great events, and we have put much time into training you, and you are kin to us in a way that other humans are not because of your ability to speak. We do not want to miss out on the chance of helping your greatness along._ ”

Harry still eyes him cautiously. That’s the nicest thing that a Speaker has ever said to him, which…unfortunately makes it suspect. He manages to brace himself, and murmurs, “ _So, what shall we do? You want to resume our lessons at Hogwarts_?”

“ _Yes. That way, we can make sure that we are here if something like this happens again._ ” Asheren twists his head so that his snout points at Chaos, who has her wings spread as if she’s about to take off from the floor. “ _This was unexpected._ ”

“Chaos is not a thing,” Harry says in clear, precise English. Sometimes he forgets whether he’s speaking Parseltongue or English when he’s looking at the Speakers, which is embarrassing when he’s trying to use a language to make a point. “She’s a dragon. I would appreciate you using her name.”

“ _Chaos. A fitting name._ ” Asheren ripples his body up and down, which is the closest equivalent to shaking his head that he’s willing to perform as a snake. “ _Set the parameters for the lessons and tell us what they are._ ”

Harry almost snaps back, but then he pauses. Before, he had a terrible time getting the Speakers to agree to what he wanted. They just showed up and offered the lessons as if they were a great gift, and fought him bitterly when he wanted to stay with Sirius and Professor Snape instead of going back to their world. Or country. Or whatever it actually is.

This is new. And it might be suspect, like the nice things Asheren’s already said, but it at least sounds _closer_ to what he wants.

“Why would you suddenly change your mind about this?” Harry asks, ignoring the way that Snape tenses up behind him. He probably wishes the whole conversation was in English, but Harry can’t make the Speakers do that. He’ll at least make his side of the conversation that way so Snape can follow it. “You never acted as though I had much of a say in the lessons before.”

Asheren slithers up to him. Lion rears. Chaos gets her feet beneath her, and huffs. Small glints of flame appear at the edges of her muzzle and nostrils. Harry shudders as he imagines what’s going to happen if she breathes fire at one of the Speakers.

Asheren ignores her, though, which is really impressive. He looks carefully, searchingly, into Harry’s eyes. Then he inclines his head slowly. “ _For whatever reason, greatness does follow you. We thought at first it might be only your conflict with the other Parselmouth, but it is more than that. And you do not harness greatness when it appears. You ally yourself with it or follow it._ ”

Harry blinks. “That means that you’ll treat me like an equal in the lessons and won’t fight me about what I want to learn? Or when I want to hold them?” That was another problem, when he wanted to restrict the lessons to certain days of the week and the Speakers argued with him before they agreed.

But they _did_ agree. Thinking back, Harry supposes that he doesn’t have to distrust their good will as much as he thought he did.

“ _Yes. We understand now why you would have more need of battle magic than divination or learning the basics of serpent magic._ ” Asheren weaves his body in an odd pattern that Harry supposes might have some meaning, but he honestly doesn’t know what it is, and he’s not going to bother about it. “ _Do you know that you are not alone? That some Speakers might come to your side and fight_?”

Harry can’t stop staring. “But Voldemort is a Parselmouth, too.”

Snape steps in front of him, scowling like Uncle Vernon used to do when Harry had done something “freaky.” “I want to know exactly what you are talking about.”

“The Speakers are offering to ally with me,” Harry says, looking away from Asheren a little. Otherwise, he’s pretty sure the words would come out in Parseltongue right now. “I just wanted to know why, since Voldemort is a Parselmouth, too, and it doesn’t seem like they wouldn’t want to fight him.”

“Whereas _I_ thought they were already your allies.”

“ _This would be a more formal arrangement,”_ Asheren says at once, which proves once and for all that the Speakers can so understand English, they just choose not to speak it often. “ _Spying, battle strategies, participation in battles if necessary._ ”

Harry translates that for Snape, and then adds, “I don’t see why you’re so eager not to participate in battles. You’d probably be pretty strong and you could make people respect snakes and Parselmouths more than they do now.”

“ _And we hide our existence from the wizarding world precisely because of that lack of respect.”_ Asheren’s tail lashes across the floor and luckily doesn’t knock anything over. _“If Parselmouths were respected as much as they were in Salazar Slytherin’s time, there would be no need to hide. But they are not._ ”

Harry frowns. He knows he’s missing things and there must be some whole history here that he doesn’t understand, but on the other hand, he really has no need to ask about it right now. “So what would happen if you did have no other choice but to fight?”

“ _We would use illusions to disguise our contribution as much as possible. We could come in human form, but even then they might notice something different about us, and we are weakest in our two-legged shape._ ”

Harry nods. He can see that, now. He does a quick translation for Snape, who is starting to grip his wand, and then finishes, “And what would happen if you really couldn’t hide or you had to come to battle in your serpent form because there was no other choice?”

Asheren slinks up to him and stares into his eyes, ignoring the restless way Lion moves on Harry’s shoulder and Chaos next to his feet. His voice is low and quiet, but so thick that Harry can feel it like a buzz in his chest. “ _Then that is what we shall do._ ”

Harry nods again. “All right. I accept your help, and I accept the extra lessons. You’ll just need to make sure the other Speakers hold by the agreement to respect my friends and guardians, too.”

Asheren flickers his tongue out, almost too fast to be seen. “ _We shall respect them if they prove themselves worthy of respect._ ”

Harry wants to roll his eyes, but as it is, he stands his ground and just look Asheren in the eye. “I want you to respect them at least as much as you respect Sirius and Professor Snape now. You agreed to only come to Professor Snape’s house on certain days. Agree to reasonable things that my friends want, too.”

Asheren waits for a moment as though he thinks Harry is going to change his mind, or as though he has to commune with other Speakers somewhere in his head. Then he dips his neck until his tongue is on the level of Harry’s waist. “ _Agreed._ ”

Harry slowly says, “Okay. And—how did you use that light to come into Professor Snape’s office?”

Asheren gestures at Lion and Harry with his neck. “ _We can go any place that there are Parselmouths or incidents of serpent magic._ ”

Harry frowns. “Then why not just go find Voldemort and destroy him right now?”

“ _He has stopped being a true Parselmouth. He still commands the gift, but he also commands other magic that has corrupted it and renders us unable to easily find him.”_

Harry sighs, because he should have known it wouldn’t be that simple, and also should have known from his dreams that Voldemort had probably got to that point. “Okay. Then—thanks for your help, and we’ll see you soon.”

“And do not appear in my office again, if you truly respect me,” Snape says tightly. He’s coiled up in a way that resembles a spider watching a fly.

Harry thinks of telling him that, but quickly decides it wouldn’t do any good. He just watches as Asheren bobs his head in something that’s almost a nod, and then turns and slithers towards the center of Snape’s office again. His body starts gleaming brightly and Harry puts a hand over his eyes.

When he looks again, the point of light is contracting like a winking eye, and he knows Asheren is gone.

Snape sighs soft and low behind him, and says, “It is better to have their alliance than not to have to it. But I am wondering how we are going to keep the secret of these lessons from Albus, especially since the Speakers will be coming and going to and from the school.”

“We can look for another classroom where we can practice, right? I mean, my study group and I found the one we use, and I know it’s not the only abandoned room in the school, sir.”

Snape nods, but he looks distracted by something. “I notice that you speak to Black in tones of familiarity.”

“Er, I do? I mean, I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” And Harry doesn’t. It just always seemed to him a little _silly_ to use formality with Sirius. He’s not a formal person.

“You use his first name. Yet you call me a professor and sir despite living in my house for two months. Why?”

Harry stares at him, his mouth open. It never even _occurred_ to him that that would bother Snape. He’s never said anything about it before! He acts as though he wants to be formal with Harry when they’re in Potions, so Harry just goes along with it and does what he wants.

And Snape is a _very_ formal person. Harry can’t imagine addressing him by his first name barely at all.

“I—I suppose I can call you by your first name if you want?” Harry offers. It’s making him feel faint, it’s so strange. “As long as you tell me when you want me to do that. I mean, you probably don’t want me to do it when I’m having Potions with Gryffindor.”

Snape sneers. “No, of course I do not.” He hesitates, then nods. “I know that you call Black by his first name. I demand equality with him. Severus will do.”

“If you really want me to call you by something else, I will,” Harry offers, although he can’t imagine what it would be. Severus doesn’t really lend itself to nicknames or anything. And he still thinks that he might be dreaming and Severus will reverse the offer the next time Harry gets in trouble.

“If at some point you feel comfortable enough to call me by another name, then I will accept that,” Snape says, his eyes glinting. “For now, Severus will do,” he repeats, and then begins to interrogate Harry about the subtleties of the Parseltongue conversation with Asheren.

Harry dutifully repeats just about everything he said, while his mind plays with the idea. What else would Severus want to be called? (Just getting used to that name will be strange enough). What could he possibly mean?

*

Severus watches as Harry leaves, Chaos padding next to him and Lion on his shoulder. He’s done what he can, he thinks. Harry will have the Speakers’ lessons in Severus’s quarters, and in time, Severus thinks that he can get used to the way they can leap in and out. At least he knows that they cannot simply appear if Harry is not in the rooms.

It is scant comfort.

He puts away the cauldron that he was using earlier to brew a Calming Draught—he goes through them quickly—and thinks again about Harry’s confusion when Severus asked for a different name. It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. The boy calls Black Sirius without a hesitation, with a smile on his face, and hugs him freely.

Severus should be able to demand at least the same treatment, considering how often he has shielded the boy since last year.

And he should not wish so strongly for the boy to call him _Father._


	23. Former Death Eaters

Tarquinius gentles his smile as he watches the young witch walk into the elegant restaurant he’s chosen. This is the second candidate for a new wife he’s interviewed. The first one, it turned out, had an unfortunate mother. This one is both younger and purer. Tarquinius hopes it will go well.

“Mr. Nott, sir?” The witch’s voice is breathy as she locates him. She has dark brown hair with glints of gold towards the ends, a color Tarquinius has always been attracted to. She bows her head to him and extends her hand.

Tarquinius kisses it without rising from his seat, and watches, in turn, the blush rise up her cheeks. “I hope that you will come to call me Tarquinius, my dear,” he says, as she glides into the seat across from him. A glass of exquisite wine is already waiting for her. “Last names are so formal.”

“Then you must call me Lindanora.”

Tarquinius has planned on it, but the invitation thrills him. Lindanora glances at him, then away. Her eyes mirror her hair, dense hazel with those glints of gold. “Let’s begin with the quail, my dear, and with genealogy. I understand that your family is related to the Dagworth-Grangers?”

“Yes, Tarquinius, and more distantly to the Gaunts. We have a connection with your own illustrious ancestors, but it’s much more distant than even the Gaunt link.”

Lindanora seems to be relaxing the more she speaks. Tarquinius nods. His last chosen witch was visibly nervous the moment they moved on to discussing grandparents, which was how Tarquinus found out that she had a Muggle one. “I understand that your family includes a few Parselmouths.”

“They do, although no one has had the gift in generations.” Lindanora cuts off a neat bite of quail when it comes to the table and chews it precisely five times. Tarquinius isn’t sure if those manners are natural or put-on, but he’s willing to allow either as long as she continues to use them around him.

“That does not matter to me. I’m seeking good blood right now, not a particular combination of talents.” Tarquinius shudders at the thought of marrying a Parselmouth anyway. The Speakers might take an interest in a woman like that, and Tarquinius has lost his son’s loyalty to Harry Potter already.

“Good.” Lindanora finishes another neat bite and looks at him under her eyelashes. “I am interested in you, Tarquinius.”

 _Now I will find someone to marry, and have another child, and all the potions Theodore can brew will be superfluous._ Tarquinius takes her hand and smiles into her face. “And I you, my dear.”

*

_I shall have you back. When I do, you will wish that I had given you to the Dark Lord._

Blaise closes his eyes and pushes the parchment away. His mother finally grew smart enough to realize that she can’t send threatening letters to Blaise at school, not with the amount of spells he can cast and that are on Hogwarts’s walls, and she wouldn’t risk a Howler when it would out the fact that she’s lost control of her son.

So she has one of her house-elves deliver non-magical but threatening messages like these. She thinks she’ll make Blaise back down.

But each message, although it makes Blaise shiver down to the marrow of his bones, also makes him more determined. He has no reason to think he can make peace with his mother or that she’ll forgive him for what he’s done. And once she finds out that he inherited her Gift, he won’t be surprised if she steps up the efforts to kill him instead of get him back.

Blaise might as _well_ fight her, because she’s backed him into a corner.

He sits with his eyes shut for a long moment. The message was on his pillow as always; the house-elf comes and goes so quietly Blaise never hears her. Then he sighs and gets up to shower and face the day.

Harry is watching him keenly when Blaise comes downstairs to the common room, and somewhat to Blaise’s surprise, so is Chaos. He eyes her uncertainly as he takes the seat across from Harry. If she decides he’s a threat, will she attack?

Dragons aren’t that good at nuance, and someone acting strangely around Harry, or in a way Chaos doesn’t recognize, could indeed prompt that attack.

“Do you want to come with me to feed Chaos this morning?”

Blaise starts and looks at Harry instead of his dragon. “You haven’t invited any of us to come with you before.”

“That’s because it’s messy and I didn’t want to make people uncomfortable.” Harry shrugs as he stands up. “But you look like you need to think about something other than whatever’s swirling around inside your head.”

Blaise stands up and follows Harry out of the common room. They go up the stairs but turn towards the outside, instead of the kitchens as Blaise expected. Blaise awkwardly clears his throat. “It’s my mother.”

“She’s threatening you?”

“Through messages delivered by her house-elf.” Blaise marvels at how cold Harry’s voice has grown. Harry sounds almost the way he did when he first found out that Blaise’s mother would kill him for his Gift. “They can’t be magical or poisonous because of the wards on the castle, but they’re bad enough.”

Harry nods and then they don’t talk for a while, because they’re outside the school and approaching the little tent that Dragon-Keepers have set up near the Beauxbatons carriage. Charlie Weasley stands up, smiling, when he sees them. “Come for venison or beef this time, Harry?”

“You said you had horse?”

“Well, yeah. But I just wondered if you wanted to feed meat that coarse to a growing dragon?” Weasley bends down and reaches out a cautious hand. Chaos allows him to scratch behind her eye-ridges, but Blaise thinks that Weasley knows as well as he does why. Chaos is really looking at the piles of meat on the ground behind Weasley.

“I read that they eat horses sometimes, and the flesh helps them get better eyesight and breathe hotter flame.”

Blaise frowns, because he honestly can’t remember ever hearing that. And he wonders where Harry had _time_ to read that. It seems like he’s always studying, either for the actual classes and homework he has or for their study group, and if he’s not studying, he’s teaching.

“Really? I haven’t heard that.” Blaise is kind of pleased to see that Weasley also looks skeptical, even if it means that he’s distrusting Harry.

Harry only shakes his head. “I read lots of things, Charlie, and hear lots of things. And you have some horse meat, right? You already said you did.” He looks right at Weasley with big, calm eyes, and Weasley crumbles in front of that gaze the same way Blaise has seen Professor Snape do.

“Yeah, I do.” Weasley turns and uses a bucket to scoop up a certain kind of meat that doesn’t look much different to Blaise from the pile. Maybe it’s a little darker than some of the others. “Here you go, Chaos.” He puts the bucket down in front of the dragon, who trots over to eat it. But she lifts her head after a second and looks around as if searching for something.

Harry walks over and lays his hand on her back. Chaos immediately dives back into the meat.

“You really shouldn’t spoil her that much, Harry,” Weasley tries to scold. “After all, dragonets this age in the sanctuary are already eating by themselves without leaning against their mother.”

“But you said that Chaos is smaller than those dragonets. She still needs me here.” Harry turns around and looks at Blaise. “What do you want to do about the situation with your mother?”

Blaise tries to flick his eyes at Weasley without indicating too much. Weasley looks curious enough already. But Harry has that stubborn blank look on his face that he got last year when Flint pressured him to play Quidditch. Apparently, they’re discussing this here.

Blaise clenches his teeth. At least he knows that Weasley won’t run off and tell the truth to Dumbledore, given that they seem to be barely on speaking terms.

“I don’t know how I’m going to stop the messages that she’s sending by house-elf,” Blaise admits. “They listen to her and not me. I could give them all the orders I liked, and it wouldn’t have any impact.”

“But there are wards that might protect your bed,” Harry says. To all appearances, he’s watching Chaos devour the horse meat, but his voice is a little sharper than the dreamy expression. “Some I’ve read about that keep house-elves out.”

“ _Where_ , though?” Blaise has already looked through the Hogwarts library for books like that. He didn’t find any. If Harry has, then he hasn’t shared them, which is really unlike him. On the other hand, he didn’t know until today that Blaise was having problems with house-elves.

Harry tilts his head a little. It takes Blaise a moment to realize that he’s aiming his eyes at Lion, who is asleep on his shoulder in what seems to be a little pocket of heated air.

Blaise blinks, and then feels stupid. Of course. Harry could have learned about house-elves and even the information about dragons eating horsemeat from the Speakers. And that’s a secret that Blaise isn’t going to force into the open in front of Weasley, even though part of him thinks it would be a fair trade for Harry exposing Blaise’s problems.

“Do you think I could learn some of them from you?”

“Of course.” Harry smiles at him and then turns around to massage Chaos’s throat. Apparently she’s swallowed a thick chunk of meat too fast. “We’ll take about an hour tonight in the classroom, okay? I think you’ll pick the wards up fast. They aren’t all that hard, just uncommon.”

Blaise nods and keeps silent, watching Chaos finish her meal. On the way back to the school, though, he asks, “Why did you want Weasley to know about my problems with my mother’s house-elves?”

“Because there’s the chance the war could kill me, or steal my memory, or something,” Harry says in a flat voice. “I want someone else to know so they can help you and give you sanctuary if you need it.”

It feels as if all the hair on Blaise’s body is trying to stand up at once. “But Professor Snape knows.”

“I know. But during the school year, he’s busy with a million other different things, and your mother has to know that he guarded you this summer. This is a sanctuary that she would know nothing about. I’m going to ask Charlie to make sure that he’d protect you, but just from the look on his face, I think he will.”

Blaise swallows and nods. “You—you spend a lot of time thinking about your own death?”

Harry gives him a faint smile, but his hand is scratching Chaos’s face behind her horns and Blaise doesn’t think he’s listening at all, or thinking about his answer. “I just try to think of all the practicalities.”

*

Daphne stands up when she sees Blaise and Theo linger behind with Weasley and Granger at their latest study session. She _thought_ she knew something was going on, but this is the first time they’ve given her proof.

She heard Blaise mention the word “lieutenants” once, but she couldn’t really believe it. If lieutenants existed, she thought, Draco would have wanted in on it. But she watched some of Blaise’s and Theo’s movements around Harry, and now she understands.

 _Harry_ barely wants in on it. He won’t let in anyone who doesn’t absolutely insist or someone who he doesn’t trust completely. Draco doesn’t fit either of those categories.

Up until this morning, neither did Daphne. But she had a discussion with her parents by owl, and they didn’t forbid her. They didn’t say she could, either, but Daphne wants her own kind of greatness.

She knows how to hitch her carriage to a phoenix when one appears in the sky.

Blaise and Theo stop talking when she steps up behind them, and Weasley gives her a scowl. Granger just looks calculating, and she’s the one who speaks. “What do you want, Greengrass?”

“To make an oath to Harry.” Daphne leans past Granger and looks directly into Harry’s eyes. They’re tired and opaque. He used to be easier to read. But either dealing with so many threats and changes or having been in Slytherin for a whole year has altered things. Now Harry studies her with a quiet, blank face.

“No,” Harry finally says. He doesn’t sound upset about it. He’s just refusing her the chance. And he does it without even looking up from the table where his snake Lion is wreathing his body into small shapes and circles. He’s scribbling down something on a parchment.

“You haven’t heard what oath I wish to make,” Daphne says quietly. While she’s disappointed, she did expect this refusal.

“But I don’t want people making oaths to me.” Harry looks up and rests the quill at a certain point on the parchment as if he doesn’t want to lose the thoughts he was writing down. “They can choose to help me, follow me—” He chokes a little on those last words. “If they want. But oaths are something else.”

“I know that you’ve had allies who wanted to make them to you.”

“Yes, but we’re fourteen, Daphne. That’s not the same thing as an adult making an oath.”

Daphne reaches into her pocket and takes out the small silver chain that she prepared ahead of time. It took some hunting in Knockturn Alley to find the right material. The oath she’s planning to make isn’t a popular one anymore. “What about an oath that binds me for just one year, instead of for a lifetime?”

Blaise sucks in a sharp breath and turns to stare at her. Theo shows nothing on his face, but he almost never does. Weasley frowns. Granger is the one who speaks, which shouldn’t be a surprise, Daphne supposes. “There isn’t any oath like that. Unless Harry is making a truce with hostile powers. Are you a hostile power, Greengrass?”

“Of course not.” Daphne manages to give Granger a smile that she doesn’t _think_ is too condescending, although Gryffindors can be sensitive about these things. She faces Harry, who is blank-faced again. “The one I’m talking about is called the Oath of Stars.”

“Theo?” Harry asks quietly, after glancing back and forth between Blaise and Theo and apparently picking up some subtle signal from them both that Daphne misses.

“The Oath of Stars is a real thing.” Theo is studying Daphne with quiet eyes like Harry’s, and that’s all she can really say about them. Then again, “quiet” is all she would have said about Theo for years before she got to know him through this study group. “It does bind someone for a year—well, a year and a day, technically. It’s symbolized by a chain that both the oath-taker and the person the vow is made to wear. The chain shatters if the oath-taker betrays the oath somehow.”

“Is it an oath that a fourteen-year-old can make or accept?” Harry is looking at Daphne again, but Daphne actually can’t read anything from his face. That’s so impressive she holds back an exclamation.

“It’s unusual,” Theo says, after thinking, or at least pretending to be thinking. “But I think the youngest person who took the oath was twelve, so it’s possible.”

“I don’t even know what you would vow to me to do.”

Daphne allows herself to sigh, since she’s past the first hurdle. “I would vow to stay loyal, although my parents have to make their own decisions. I would ask for protection for my younger sister Astoria. I would promise to become another lieutenant of yours.”

“Oi, Greengrass! We had a hard enough time persuading Harry to accept _us_ as lieutenants! You think you can march in here and—”

When she woke up this morning, Daphne didn’t expect to be exchanging a look of exasperated tolerance with Granger, of all people, but Granger is the one who reaches out and pinches Weasley’s arm to keep him silent, while shooting Daphne that glance.

“Honestly, not everyone can be a lieutenant,” Harry says. He probably thinks he sounds kind. He just sounds as exasperating as Weasley. “I mean, at a certain size, if half of our group is a lieutenant or calls herself that—”

“End the growth of the group after me,” Daphne says. “But I’m not just anyone, Harry. You still wear the signal of my friendship with you.”

Harry touches the pendant around his neck that guarantees him protection as well as Daphne’s friendship, and nods a little, slowly. “I just don’t like the thought of someone sworn to me instead of just choosing to follow me.”

Daphne rolls her eyes. “I’m not one of your old friends, and I’m not someone who got as close to you last year as Blaise and Theo did. I think an oath will let us best relate without distrusting each other.”

Harry considers that, then nods. “All right. But I want to read the oath before you swear it and make sure it isn’t too restrictive.”

“You assume that it’s going to be _too_ restrictive for you?” Daphne stares at him before she can help it. Then again, this is Harry Potter. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised.

Harry gives her a single tired glance. “I know the kind of things that can happen when someone swears an oath without thinking it through,” he says, and although Daphne can’t imagine when he would have learned such a thing, it’s obvious he won’t be swayed.

In the end, Daphne bows and leaves to write her oath.

*

Narcissa looks up with a smile as her husband comes into the room. The smile conceals all sorts of things. Sometimes it conceals the way that she loves him. Sometimes, how she hates the words he had spoken of their son, as if Draco is some mere, biddable shadow of Lucius. Sometimes it hides doubt, or hurt, or scorn, or joy.

Now, it hides anger so deep that something in Narcissa has cracked in half from the rage.

Lucius sits down across from her at the table and begins to speak, leading up, as Narcissa knows, to the moment when he will reveal that he has returned to following the Dark Lord, and convince her to inch after him into servitude. Narcissa smiles and casts down her eyes and acts as if she has no idea what he’s doing, what he’s already done.

She detected the presence of the potion that would make her obedient and suggestible in her wine before she drank it. But that cracked half of her whispers, _Better the deception and the time Lucius has to be allowed to go on thinking he’s won, than reveal your advantage right away._

For the sake of her son, for the sake of herself, for the sake of her marriage, Narcissa will pretend for now, and see if there is a way of recapturing her husband.

But even if there is, how merciless her revenge will be.


	24. His Choices

“Harry? You haven’t stopped rubbing your face. Is something wrong?”

Harry winces and drops his hand back to his side. Most of the time, he doesn’t do this kind of thing even in the privacy of the Slytherin boys’ bedroom. Crabbe and Goyle still room with them, after all, and they would hardly leave Harry alone if he showed “weakness.”

“My face hurts a little,” he tells Theo, turning away so that he can dig his Potions book out of his bag. He has a lesson with the Speakers this afternoon. They promised to tell him some interesting ways to combine traditional potions with serpent magic. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Tomorrow is the full moon.”

Harry stiffens, but keeps digging for his book.

“I notice that you’ve been eating steaks that are closer to uncooked, too,” Theo continues in his quiet, reflective voice that Harry hates, because it’s always so hard to tell what Theo means when he’s talking like that. “And when you shouted for Draco and Smith to stop that duel the other day, your voice sort of trailed off into a howl at the end.”

Harry tilts his head back and meets Theo’s eyes, his hand tightening around the cover of the book. “You want to make something of it?” he asks.

“Of course not. I noticed these things. And I think you should tell someone. Maybe Lupin. He might be able to help you cope with it.”

“There’s nothing to cope with.”

“So you’d rather be in pain for no reason. I did think that we got rid of some of that attitude when we convinced you to share the burdens of leadership, Harry.”

Harry just closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say to Theo. Yes, his face hurts. So what? His scar hurts when he has dreams, too, and all the Occlumency tutoring Professor Snape can give him hasn’t helped with that. He used to hurt when he did gardening at the Dursleys, or when he hit a wall because someone had flung a jinx at him. Pain is part of life. Even the Speakers believe that.

“Are you going to tell Lupin?”

“No. I didn’t transform or _really_ get the infection, and you know that as well as I do, Theo. I just—”

“Hurt.”

Harry shrugs and finally finds the right book and drops it into his bag. He swings the bag over his shoulder. When he leaves the room, he nearly collides with Goyle, who’s walking up the stairs. Goyle gives him a suspicious little grunt and disappears into the room.

“Do you mind if I write to Lupin and tell him, then?”

“Of _course_ I do.” Harry turns around on the stairs and glares at Theo.

“He’d like to know. I think he really cares for you. And Black would probably like to know, too, even if he’s thinking of mostly taking revenge on Greyback at the moment.”

Harry just turns his back and walks on. He doesn’t know what else to say. He can’t prevent Theo from writing to Remus and Sirius if that’s really what he wants to do. But the thought makes Harry tired again. What do people _want_ from him? He’s coping as best as he can with the scars on his face and his extra lessons and Snape’s worry and his teaching and Chaos and the dreams and all the rest of it. Is he supposed to be doing something else?

When people talk about “telling the truth” like Theo does, it sure seems like it.

“Harry, I’m sorry.” Theo is beside him, lightly touching his arm. “I don’t mean to pile more burdens on your shoulders. It just—hurts when I know that you’re in pain and I want to do something about it.”

Harry sighs a little and smiles at his friend. “I know. And I appreciate it, Theo. But I really can’t afford the time to do anything about it right now. Remus would say that I should rest or something. But he has his own time near the full moon to cope with. And I can’t rest. I have three essays due tomorrow and our study group the day after that.”

“And the Yule Ball.”

Harry blinks. “What about it?” He’s heard people talking about it, of course, since it’s part of the Tournament, but he didn’t think it involved him.

Theo stares at him. “Did you forget that the Champions are supposed to open the Ball with a dance? You’ll have to choose someone to take.”

“Luna,” Harry says instantly.

Theo actually takes a step back. Harry waits, one hand resting on his wand now. He won’t tolerate people insulting Luna, even if it’s someone who’s a close friend and part of his study group.

“Why her, though? I thought you would ask Granger.”

“Why would I ask Hermione?”

Theo pauses again. “I just—never mind. She’s a close friend of yours and a girl. I thought you would.” He pushes forwards before Harry can scoff at him for thinking that Hermione would want to go to the Yule Ball with Harry just because she’s a _girl_. “So, are you going to date her? Buy her a gift the way that you’re supposed to before formal dates?”

Harry wants to ask how Theo knows that, but the answer is probably “his father,” and he tries not to bring up Tarquinius around Theo unless he has to. “No. I’ll just go with her to dance and have fun. I know that Luna isn’t going to try and read too much into it.”

“Are you going to date anyone, Harry?”

Harry shrugs and walks down the stairs again. “No. Don’t really want to.”

Theo’s silence behind him is baffled as he escorts Harry to the classroom where the Speakers have chosen to appear this afternoon, but Harry doesn’t even know what he would say to reassure him, so he ignores the temptation to fill that silence. Sometimes Harry doesn’t understand things, and other times, he doesn’t understand the things that other people don’t understand.

*

Luna beams up at him, and reaches out to rearrange one of the fluttering bird clips in her hair. “Of course I would love to go to the Yule Ball with you, Harry.”

“Right,” Harry says, glad that he’s done with asking. He gets a bunch of stares from the other people in their study group as he moves away from Luna, especially the girls, but if they want to know that badly, they can ask him about it. He isn’t going to blurt everything out just because they’re curious.

Hermione is the first one who comes up and does so. “Did you forget about the Yule Ball until today, Harry?” she asks, with a faint smile on her face, the way she looked when Harry forgot to mention that he was having sessions with Healer Lyndell.

Harry shrugs and picks up his books. “Yeah, until Theo said something. But I know Luna will enjoy it, and she won’t gape at me and think it means more than it does.”

Hermione nods. “That’s true. Although I think there might be a few other girls in the study group who would have loved to go with you.”

After looking carefully at her, Harry determines that she’s not talking about herself, and relaxes. “Well, that’s true, but a lot of them would see it as more than it really is.”

He’s thinking specifically about Daphne, but from the little shudder Hermione gives, she might have another candidate in mind. Then she starts talking about the fact that she managed a wandless Shield Charm today, and Harry gratefully gives his attention to that instead.

*

“Did you think you could get away with it, Potter?”

Harry turns around. Chaos is already rearing beside him, her tail bristling with spikes. Harry just says, “That would depend on knowing what I’m supposed to have got away with,” as he watches Goyle.

Goyle brandishes his wand and sneers. “You’re trying to corrupt a pure-blood. Taking her to the Yule Ball! When you would kill her and devour her corpse afterwards, right? That’s what wolves like you do.’

Other people in the corridor are starting to turn around. Chaos’s growl is low enough that Harry doesn’t think anyone else can hear it, or they would already be scattering. He pushes down on her neck with one hand and shakes his head. “I’m not a wolf, Goyle.”

“A _werewolf_!”

“I’m not your typical werewolf, either. I’ve been here multiple full moons and you haven’t seen me transform. Don’t be a fool.” Harry is keeping his voice low, because that’s probably the best way to calm both Chaos and Lion, who’s rearing up on his shoulder and flapping his wings. Honestly, he wants to laugh at the stupidity of it all. People let months go by without saying anything and _now_ they want to?

“Don’t take a pure-blood to the Yule Ball!”

“If Luna doesn’t want to go with me, she doesn’t have to. But you don’t get to make the choice for her.”

“I want you to back off, _Potter_.”

Harry shakes his head and turns to walk away. There’s just no reasoning with people like Goyle, and Harry honestly doesn’t want to try.

“ _Reducto_!”

Harry drops to the floor, rolls, and grabs Chaos in the same moment. That’s the reason the plume of her flame blasts past him and into the wall, although a different one than Goyle’s curse hits. Chaos struggles in his hold and tries to get away, but Harry can already hear robes swishing and knows Professor Snape is on his way to the scene of the crime.

Chaos projects images at him in an overwhelming flood: Goyle burning, the stone burning, Harry hidden behind a wall, Professor Snape burning. Harry rolls her over and sits on her. She snarls at him.

“ _You’re not burning all those people,_ ” Harry tells her in Parseltongue. She doesn’t understand words, not really. She understands tone and intention. This way, though, he can keep everyone else in the corridor from panicking. “ _You would burn them if you let your fire loose in here._ ”

“ _Reduct_ —”

“Mr. Goyle. What are you doing?”

Harry can’t help looking up in interest as he sees Professor Snape crash to a halt in front of him. He can’t actually see the man’s face because Professor Snape is standing with his back to Harry, facing Goyle. But Harry doesn’t have to. Snape’s voice is quiet and deadly, and that’s what really matters.

“He’s a bloody werewolf, Professor! And he corrupted a pure-blood girl by inviting her to the Yule Ball!”

“I fail to say how that is any business of yours. If you feel unsafe around Mr. Potter, you can of course tell the Headmaster—”

Harry tenses for a second, but then relaxes, although he doesn’t let his grip on Chaos go. Snape had to say that, in his role as Head of Slytherin House, and to make it look like he was offering Goyle options. Of course Goyle isn’t really going to go to Dumbledore.

“He shouldn’t be attending a school with _normal_ children!”

“And you should not be trying to curse him in the corridors, Mr. Goyle. Ten points from Slytherin.”

Everyone who’s been watching gasps. Harry is the only one who seems to remember that Snape has taken points from Slytherin before this.

“You can’t do that!”

“You are also not in the business of telling me what I may and may not do, Mr. Goyle. Get to your classroom. Now.” He swirls around with a brush of black robes that hiss on the stone, so Harry finds himself listening for Parseltongue words before he realizes that’s ridiculous. “Mr. Potter. Come with me. Now.”

Goyle sneers at him when Harry stands up, as if he thinks that Harry’s going to get in trouble after all. Harry shrugs at Goyle, which seems to infuriate him more than anything else, and walks after Professor Snape. Chaos is walking with him, but she keeps craning her neck to look over her shoulder.

Harry has the bad feeling that she’s memorizing Goyle’s face. The problem is, he also doesn’t see what he can _do_ about it even if she is.

They step into Professor Snape’s office, and the professor waves his wand. A jar of some kind of ointment zips over to him. Harry squints at it. “Is that burn paste, sir?”

“I have told you what I would prefer to be called. And yes. Did you even realize that holding your dragonet back burned your hands?”

Harry blinks. He didn’t. But just Professor Snape talking about them seems to make them hurt. He sighs and holds out his hands. “Right. Sorry, Severus.” He watches as Professor Snape smears the burn paste on, and the pain tingles and begins to fade.

“Mr. Nott mentioned that you were having trouble with the full moon.”

“Of course he found a way to tell someone even though I didn’t want him to mention it to Remus,” Harry mutters.

“Why would you not want one of your—honorary guardians apprised of your difficulties?”

“Because he has his own problems around the full moon. And because I’ve had problems like this around the other moons. It just wasn’t as bad as this.”

For a moment, Snape’s eyes glitter. Then he says, “I see. Your friends are to be trusted with this information, but _we_ are not.”

“I didn’t even trust Theo with that information! He just figured it out on his own!”

Professor Snape pauses for a second, and Harry has the kind of squirmy delight that comes over him when he sees that one of his guardians doesn’t know how to respond to something. Then Professor Snape nods and just says, “I think we should schedule an extra session with Healer Lyndell.”

“What? Why?”

“You need to listen to her talk to you about the necessity to trust others and when keeping secrets can be detrimental to you. I would speak to you on the subject myself, but I am afraid that my words would be angrier than necessary.”

Harry kicks at the floor a little. Chaos, fully-recovered now from wanting to fry Goyle, moves out of the way and hisses at him. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he mutters. “It just isn’t any worse than it was the last few moons. Well, except the pain. That is. But no one else noticed, so why did they notice now?”

“When you can speak freely of those matters, then perhaps you will know the answer to that question,” Professor Snape says briskly. “Now, to make sure that you get to Transfiguration class without incident, I will walk you there.”

*

“Professor Snape tells me that you need to speak to me now, Harry.”

Harry sighs to himself. He can’t accuse Healer Lyndell of lying or anything. Professor Snape could say that and still be telling the truth because _he_ thinks that Harry needs the benefit of a Mind-Healer.

But Harry can say at least one thing that he can’t say to Professor Snape when his guardian is so afraid of werewolves. “I didn’t tell them how I was feeling as the full moon approached. But if I _did_ tell them, they would panic. So what was I supposed to do?”

Healer Lyndell nods and tucks a hand underneath her chin, squirming sideways to get more comfortable in the chair. She gets more and more informal the more Harry gets to know her. Somehow, that doesn’t make the things they talk about more comfortable. “I see. Perhaps the problem is your perception that they would panic. What makes you think so?”

“I mean, one of my classmates attacked me just hearing that I was going to take my friend Luna Lovegood to the Yule Ball.”

“Someone you’re friendly with?”

“No. But someone who’s shared a room with me for a year and a half and never acted as if he had a problem with me before.”

“I’m afraid, Harry, that you can’t use the reactions of people like that as a guide for how you should behave. There will always be a certain amount of hostility towards you for being the Boy-Who-Lived. Instead, go by the reactions of your friends and family. Have any of _them_ panicked because of your werewolf traits?”

Harry scowls at his hands. “No. But Professor Snape has a bad history with werewolves.”

“That’s something Professor Snape and I have been discussing. I think I can promise you that, short of you actually biting him or shaping your fingernails into claws with your magic, he will protect you instead of turning on you, no matter the provocation.”

Harry lets out a long, slow breath. “I know I can trust him. And the others. Theo was just worried that I could be in pain. He wasn’t worried that I was going to snap and bite him or something.”

“Then why are you so reluctant to trust them?”

Harry struggles. He knows the concept, but the words are running away from him. Healer Lyndell watches him with calm, luminous eyes. She also puts out her hand and pets Chaos’s back. Chaos goes to sleep in these sessions, maybe because she knows that no one is going to hurt Harry or he’s just more relaxed, too. Now she snorts out a little bit of flame that luckily doesn’t catch on the chairs or Healer Lyndell’s robes.

Finally, Harry says, “Because I’m afraid of what’s going to happen if I let myself trust them, and then someday that trust isn’t there or they start being afraid of me. It’s like—I’d fall into an abyss. And I’d never come back.”

Healer Lyndell sighs like she’s sad for him and satisfied at the same time. “Ah. So we have come to the root of it. I know that you have reason to distrust others, Harry, and your background has not encouraged you to give other people more chances. But that’s something we’ll work on through small tasks. I’m going to ask you to choose someone. Tell them the truth about something that bothers you, willingly, without them having to ask. It can be small,” she adds, probably because she can see Harry opening his mouth. “But see what happens when you do.”

“What happens if they prove I can’t trust them?”

“Then we’ll pull back and work on other things. There are spells I know that can make you less afraid. But they tend not to be long-lasting when the motivation to change your mind or your behavior isn’t there. I would rather give you the chance to experiment first.”

Harry shuts his eyes. Now he’s not falling into the abyss, but he feels like Healer Lyndell is asking him to string a tightrope across the abyss and walk on it.

He nods anyway. He _does_ trust people. He wants to prove it. He doesn’t want them to worry about him like Theo and Professor Snape did.

And he’s tired of being afraid.


	25. A Small Trust

“Mr. Potter, you will be attending dance lessons so that we can make sure none of the Champions embarrass their schools on the dance floor.”

Theo sees Harry’s shoulders tighten. It doesn’t help, he’s sure, that Professor McGonagall has come up to him in the middle of a corridor between classes, so there are dozens of other curious students turning around and gaping at them. Harry reaches down and presses Chaos back onto all four legs.

“With respect, Professor McGonagall, I’ve already been offered dance lessons,” Harry says, and manages a small, tight smile at the Head of Gryffindor, which is more than Theo would have managed in his life.

McGonagall blinks and pushes a pin holding her grey hair under her hat back. “May I inquire as to who will be giving you those lessons, Mr. Potter?”

“Professor Snape has offered them to me, Professor.”

Someone snickers in the background, but the professor just nods as if she’s satisfied and walks away. Theo watches to make sure she’s gone before he comes up to walk on Harry’s left side. Blaise is already on the right. “He did offer those lessons to you, over the summer,” he whispers. “And you wrote to me to say that you refused them.”

“I did.”

Theo rolls his eyes. It’s _also_ true that Harry never told Professor McGonagall that he intended to take the lessons, just that he’d been offered them. Harry is becoming subtler every day. Theo would applaud that if Harry didn’t also try to be subtle with his friends. “You don’t care about embarrassing your school?”

“I got forced into this, Theo. You’re damn _right_ that I don’t give a fuck about embarrassing Hogwarts.”

Theo blinks at Harry’s voice. _Like winter_ , he thinks. He watches Harry stride away towards Potions class, Chaos running after him for once instead of walking ahead, and students parting like a shallow stream in front of him.

Theo tilts his head thoughtfully as he follows, and exchanges a glance with Blaise that lets him know Blaise is thinking the same thing.

_Maybe Harry ought to lose his temper more often. At least it gets rid of that tired tone that’s in his voice all the time._

*

“Can I talk to you, Potter.”

“What an inspiring beginning to this conversation,” Harry drawls, turning around. It’s weird. It’s almost like the conversation with Professor McGonagall this morning, or the session with Healer Lyndell yesterday, or something, gave him permission to be angry. He supposes he might as well. Chaos actually seems calmer when he talks back to people. Maybe she thinks that she doesn’t have to defend him all the time if he’s angry on his own behalf. “Not even a question mark added on to that.”

Lavender flushes brightly as she faces him. Harry doesn’t particularly care. He stares at her. She’s the one who sabotaged his potion last week. If she wanted consideration and gentle words and everything, she shouldn’t act like the embodiment of every stupid House prejudice.

“I—can we go somewhere else?” Lavender is looking over his shoulder, and Harry knows that Blaise and Theo have come up to stand behind him. For that matter, Ron and Hermione have come up behind Lavender, and from the way her shoulders tense, she knows it. Draco and Daphne are lingering near the door.

“No,” Harry says. He shouldn’t take delight in the way she flinches, but there, she does and he does. “You started this in the open, and you tried to hurt me last week. We’ll finish this in public, too.”

“But perhaps not in the doorway of my classroom,” Snape says smoothly from behind them. Harry nods to him and moves out of the way, down into the corridor, so the third-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs can enter. Snape leans against the doorway with his arms folded. Harry doesn’t miss the flash of his wand up one sleeve.

“Fine.” Lavender straightens her shoulders. “I—wanted to say I was sorry, but you _shouldn’t_ be making people fight You-Know-Who with you!”

“I didn’t know I was engaged in any running battles with Voldemort lately. And I didn’t know I could put people under the Imperius Curse, either.”

Theo makes a sharp, delighted intake of breath behind him, and Blaise outright laughs. Harry smiles himself. Lavender is struggling between what she probably wants to say and what she knows she should, from her face.

“I mean,” Lavender says. “You’re just always holding that study group, and I heard that you’re training people in advanced spells and wandless magic! So you want them to _fight_. What if we don’t want to be part of your war?”

“Then you don’t need to be.” Harry just shakes his head when she opens her mouth again. “Seriously, Lavender, I’ve never made anyone study with me who doesn’t want to. And you _especially_ don’t have to. If I had my way, this lot would study some magic with me and learn how to protect themselves and then _walk away_. So that, you know, Voldemort wouldn’t focus on them the way he does me.”

Lavender practically leaps back this time when he says Voldemort’s name. Blaise puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder that would feel like a chain if Harry didn’t know better. “That won’t happen,” he says in a bright voice.

“I know,” Harry says. He’s not going to say anything else, in front of someone like Lavender, but he gets the feeling he and Blaise will be having a conversation later.

“I just,” Lavender says, and then her composure breaks down and she wails in a way that makes Chaos pin her wings back. “You probably despise _anybody_ who just wants to sit out the war and let the adults fight it!”

“This is about what I think of you?” Harry pauses. “Honestly, Lavender, I don’t really think of you at all.”

Tears begin to well up in Lavender’s eyes. Harry turns away. Maybe she wants to apologize, but she’s not there yet, not if she spends more of the time demanding explanations of him and taunting him. Harry says absently, “Theo. With me. I’ll talk to the rest of you later.” They have a lengthy walk to Herbology next, which will give him time to talk to Theo in relative privacy.

*

Theo catches up to Harry with no more than a flicker of his eyelashes at anyone else. His fellow Slytherins are already obeying Harry, and so are the Gryffindors who come as part of the group. Since Harry is so opposed to the command structure, Theo wonders if he actually realizes he gave a command.

But he isn’t about to make Harry pause at the moment to find out.

They come out of the castle, and Harry takes a deep breath and glances at Theo. “I wanted to trust you with something. I don’t want you to tell anyone else.”

Theo nods immediately. He thinks he knows part of the reason Harry chose him. There are others in their group who would hesitate or try to set some condition like “unless it puts you in danger” or “unless Professor Snape really needs to know.”

But Theo can keep as silent as his mother if he wants to. He watches the muscles in Harry’s shoulders flex for a second and thinks he might have to.

“I don’t feel at home in the wizarding world in the way everyone thinks I do,” Harry finally mutters, when the greenhouses are close enough that Theo thinks he’s changed his mind. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I prefer it to the Muggle world. I got treated badly in the Muggle world.”

Theo says nothing, because he knows Harry doesn’t want anything said, but that is one of the things he will do something about if he ever gets the chance.

“I didn’t know I was a wizard until I was eleven years old. Sometimes I still feel like a Muggle inside.” Harry closes his eyes. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

Theo thinks about it for a moment. Then he says, “If you feel like that, of course it’s kind of horrendous, but one thing you should know is that you fit into this world better than most people I’ve known.”

Harry pops one eye open and studies him. “Maybe I should have chosen someone to trust who would be better at comforting.”

“I meant what I said. It’s horrible if you feel that way. But I think part of this is about the way that you think you come across to others, isn’t it? You think that you probably seem incompetent to others.”

Harry shifts his shoulders. “I _know_ I come across that way to other people. But I’m not entirely sure how I would go about changing it.”

“You come across as incredibly competent, Harry, not the other way around. How many thirteen-year-olds can manage wandless magic?”

“I’m fourteen.”

Theo allows himself to roll his eyes, something he would never do if this was any of his other friends. Well, at least any of his other Slytherin friends. “You were thirteen when I first saw you do it. How many _fourteen_ -year-olds survive as well with werewolf scars as you have? And endless nightmares? And endless practice to try and get stronger and take on a madman? The only people who could think you’re incompetent are the ones who believe all the stories we were told when we were kids and think you should be some flawless hero.”

Harry is quiet while he thinks about that. They’ve come to a halt outside the greenhouse. The others are lingering, near enough that they might overhear something Harry doesn’t want them to hear. Theo gives them a mild glare. He doesn’t understand why Granger pales and tugs Weasley along with her into the greenhouse. It’s nothing to the glare he’s going to give his father the day he watches him die.

“I didn’t think of it that way,” Harry finally says.

“Exactly. And you don’t necessarily have to. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. But I’m telling you the truth, and that’s important. It’s one of the reasons that we’ll follow you until you tell us to go away.”

“Because I’m competent?”

“That, and you protect us.” Theo wishes he could say all the things he wants to, but they really do catch and stick in his throat. He’s never had anyone to _share_ them with before. His father certainly wasn’t much of a protector, and when his mother was alive, he didn’t need to say them. “I know you’d do anything for us.”

Harry half-closes his eyes. “Most of my nightmares are of me being too late to do something,” he whispers. Chaos nuzzles his leg.

Theo thinks that might actually be a greater secret than the one about Harry being uncomfortable in the wizarding world. He squeezes Harry’s arm. “We’ll do our best to help you protect them.”

“You’re talking about—oh, wait, you’re talking about you and the others who followed you into this ridiculous lieutenant system. Why did I let you talk me into this again?”

Theo shakes his head. “You need to learn how to delegate responsibility. And we’re the ones who are closest to you and the strongest in the study group. We can protect the others.”

Harry is quiet for a second. Then he runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “We’re going to be late for Herbology.”

Theo nods in acknowledgement, but he isn’t quite ready to let the moment go. “I just wanted to let you know that you can rely on me, and Blaise, and your other friends.”

“You put yourself first, of course,” Harry says, but there’s fondness in his eyes, and Theo relaxes from the stance he was about to adopt, one that would use jokes to distance the acknowledgment if he had to. Harry isn’t making fun of him. And he’s still the one Harry chose to hear his secrets. “Come on. Let’s get to Herbology. I promise that I’ll think about this. Maybe some of it can stop the nightmares.”

Theo nods in silence and follows Harry. He would do a lot more than that to stop the nightmares if Harry let him. He would brew Dreamless Sleep for him. He would attend sessions with Healer Lyndell and talk Harry through some of her suggestions. He would kill Harry’s enemies.

But Harry would reject most of those contributions. The best thing Theo can do right now is remove some of the responsibility from Harry’s shoulders as it come along, and be his friend.

*

The day of the full moon, Harry wakes up with a blazing pain in the side of his face. He gets up and gets ready for the rest of the day without acknowledging it. It’s not as agonizing as the first attack was.

Hell, it’s not as painful as some of the things the Dursleys said to him when they were still alive.

But more to the point, if he rubs the scars and groans and the like, then he’ll get more people than just Goyle looking nervously at him.

Things take a turn for the worse at breakfast when Harry physically can’t open his mouth to eat. He tries, he really does, especially when he notices Professor Snape’s narrowed eyes from a distance. Being dragged away from breakfast to swallow a potion would be humiliating.

But he can’t do it. He ends up pushing the food around on his plate and in his porridge bowl instead, and Theo and Blaise and Draco and Ron and Hermione all notice, from the way they sit up. Daphne would probably notice the same thing, but she’s still deep in the process of writing her oath and tends to work on it every moment they’re not actually in class or the study group.

Snape swoops down next to him, a silent shadow. “You look to be in some pain, Mr. Potter,” he murmurs, and holds out the potion.

Harry can barely crack his jaw open to take it. He ignores the stares and the mutters, and manages to pour it down his throat. It makes his stomach churn for a second—it’s really not supposed to be taken when you haven’t had anything to eat—but then it calms. Harry nods as the pain in his scars fades a bit.

Snape’s eyes narrow. “That didn’t take care of all of it?”

“No.”

“Exactly where is this pain located, Mr. Potter?”

Harry still doesn’t want to point it out and panic the people at breakfast. He sets his jaw and then manages to smile a little. “Can I show you in private, sir? It would really be better that way.”

Snape’s eyes are slits now, to the point that Harry wonders irreverently how he’ll manage to see to walk, but he nods and sweeps out of the Great Hall. Harry follows. He can hear at least one person coming behind them, but Snape being there is good for something. One steady glare over Harry’s shoulder, and the footsteps retreat.

“Now,” Snape says, the minute they’re around the corner from the Great Hall and he can speak without being overheard. “I want you to tell me what’s wrong _right now_.”

The words are a sharp enough crack that they might have made Harry obey even if he hadn’t spent the summer with Snape and come to trust him a little. He nods. “The—the scars. They started blazing when I woke up this morning. They feel the way they did when they were new.”

Snape’s hands promptly come down and rest on his face, tilting his head back and forth. Harry manages not to scream, but barely. The scars are on fire again, as if he never took a pain potion at all.

“Mr. Potter? Harry!”

The pain is rushing up all around him. The world is burning. Harry is fighting to stay on his feet. He _knows_ he has to stay on his feet. He can’t faint. Or they’ll all suspect him of being a werewolf and then Severus and the rest will be ostracized and he’ll be expelled from Hogwarts and then maybe Dumbledore will do something so that he can get control of him again—

The touch of fingers on his scars makes him flinch wildly away, and then he’s running, away, away, towards the entrance hall, towards something cool and soothing. Air. Outside air. Cold water. He has to get away. He has to dip his face into the lake. That would soothe what’s happening to him.

He runs and he runs, stumbling and falling, and he can hear someone running behind him but he doesn’t know who it is, although they sound strange for some reason. He makes it to the lake and he lies down next to it, panting, but the scars on his cheek still hurt and his head is spinning.

“Just who I wanted to see.”

Harry jerks his head up. Crouched on the lakeshore next to him is Fenrir Greyback. He gives Harry almost a pleasant smile and reaches towards him with one hand cupped, his nails standing out grotesquely.

Harry knows what will happen if Greyback touches him—being snatched away and carried into the Forbidden Forest is the _best_ thing he can imagine—but those scars, those damn scars that can control him somehow, are suddenly turning his whole head to stone and not letting him move.

Greyback looms over Harry—

And then he shrieks as Chaos leaps high and blasts him in the face with dragonfire.


	26. Dragonfire

The wash of heat over his head stuns Harry for a second, and makes him lie there gaping at the sky instead of trying to stand up. Then he rolls sharply to the side and scrambles to his feet.

Because he can, now. The control that Greyback was using to make him come there through the scars is gone.

Harry turns his head and sees Chaos rearing on her hind legs, keeping up the steady stream of fire across the charred, unmoving body in front of her. It has—it doesn’t have any face anymore. Just some steaming flesh.

Harry gulps and grabs Chaos back when she opens her mouth as if she’s trying to get more flames out to cook Greyback’s fingers and legs. “That’s enough, Chaos,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, but he doesn’t know if that’s because of the heat or his fear or he just swallowed some smoke. “He’s—he’s done.”

Chaos sits back on her haunches and regards him calmly, as if he’s a particularly stupid mother dragon. The impression that knocks on Harry’s mind is that of ground suddenly giving way under his feet. Chaos wants to cook Greyback so that there’s no way he can ever be a threat again.

Harry swallows. “I know, but we have to go get someone so they can see to him.”

“No need for that, Mr. Potter.” Professor Snape is right behind them, his face so pale that Harry thinks he’d blend right in with the ghosts if they were outside. He bends down and casts a charm. A dull red glow rises from Greyback’s chest. Harry doesn’t know what that means. Is there a special charm to point out when someone is dead from dragonfire?

 _If so, Charlie probably knows it,_ Harry thinks. He wants to giggle. He closes his eyes and rubs Chaos’s horns instead. He can feel the shock crashing through his body, something he had no time to feel before.

“Are you all right, Harry?”

“I—I think so,” Harry says, and for a second, he leans against Professor Snape and lets himself shiver. Then he hears other voices, and starts back and away. He thinks that Professor Snape looks disappointed, but he can’t let himself be too weak. He turns around, and hopes that he’ll look calm and collected standing there with his hand on Chaos, instead of like he’s using her to hold himself up.

Theo is running towards him, his eyes so wide that Harry thinks it’s the first time he’s ever seen him really scared. Behind him are Ron and Hermione and Draco and Blaise, and then Dumbledore, walking slowly. He’s looking at Greyback, not Harry.

Harry tightens his shoulders. He thinks he knows what Dumbledore is going to say before he even says it. But he tries to ignore it for now, and just nods to Theo and accepts the clap on his shoulder.

Hermione doesn’t bother with holding back, and flings her arms around him. “Oh, _Harry_! We thought you might be dead!”

Harry pats her back and catches Ron’s eye. Usually Hermione is more dramatic than Ron, but his face is bright white, too, with freckles like spots of blood. Harry blinks and reaches out his hand.

“I’m all right,” he manages to say, before Dumbledore clears his throat and steps forwards with a long stride.

“I regret to tell you that this is precisely the sort of accident I’ve been trying to prevent, Harry,” he says, with a sad shake of his head.

“You could have fooled me,” Professor Snape says, and it feels like every muscle in Harry’s body has tensed and tightened. He never thought he would hear Professor Snape say something like that, at least in public. “Given that you refused to allow the protections that would have prevented werewolves from entering the grounds.”

Dumbledore sighs. “They would have negatively affected Mr. Lupin. And possibly Mr. Potter, as well.”

Harry lets go of Hermione, because he knows his arms are going to get so tight he’ll hurt her otherwise. He looks evenly at Dumbledore, but he can tell from his own bobbing throat that he’s not controlling his emotions well. “I’m not a werewolf, sir.”

“But you ran out here as though you were. And you were acting strangely at breakfast.” Dumbledore sighs again and turns to look at Greyback’s steaming body as though he doesn’t want to. “And now you have killed like one, Harry.”

Harry just stares. He knew Dumbledore was going to blame him and try to find a way to get rid of Chaos, but he never knew it would sound like that. His throat is all tight, and his eyes are prickly and hot, even though it doesn’t really feel like he’s going to cry.

“That’s _ridiculous_!”

Hermione is the one blowing up at Dumbledore, of course, her arms folded and her hands twitching like she wants to go for her wand. But she might not even need it, with the way that the air around her is sparking the way it does before she tries to cast wandless magic. Harry tries to shake his head and catch her eye, but Hermione refuses to look away from Dumbledore.

“You _know_ that Harry isn’t a werewolf! You know that burning someone to death isn’t the way a werewolf kills! Chaos only defended him in the first place because _you_ let Greyback onto the grounds!”

“Miss Granger.” Dumbledore somehow manages to make himself look even taller as he peers down at her. “That is a serious accusation, one that I would thank you not to repeat. In the meantime, I do have to have a talk with Harry about sending his dragon away.”

Chaos hisses, a wash of white comes over Harry’s vision, and Professor Snape puts a hand on his shoulder. Harry knows that he shouldn’t step in, that it will make things worse if he does, but he can’t just sit back and let Dumbledore talk about taking Chaos away, either.

“I think everyone’s reacting a little too hastily.”

Harry whips his head around, eyes narrowed, because he fucking _told_ Blaise—

Blaise produces a sharp smile and just nods when people gape at him. The thing is, Harry’s pretty sure that he’s not using his mother’s creepy Gift. He got everyone’s attention by daring to speak up when no one else would have, and Dumbledore doesn’t have the same problem with him that he does with Hermione.

“Harry, why did you come out here in the first place?” Blaise asks in a calm voice, facing him. “It seemed strange for you to run from Professor Snape when he was trying to help you.”

“The pain in the scars made me think that I had to soothe my face in the lake,” Harry answers. Then he pauses and reaches up. The scars are still there, rough skin under his hand, but the pain is gone.

“Huh.”

Professor Snape moves around in front of him, ignoring the way that Dumbledore was starting to say something. “What is it?” His hand hovers above the scars, but doesn’t touch them. Harry can understand why, after the way he reacted to the potion earlier.

“The pain in my scars—is gone.” Harry’s eyes dart to Greyback’s roasted body, then away. He can accept that Greyback is dead, but it’s still hard to look at. “I think he was using them to manipulate me away from everyone and make me come out here so he could reach me. But now he’s dead, so that’s gone.”

“You should not rejoice in someone else’s death, Harry.” Dumbledore sounds desperately sad.

Harry just glares at him. He’s not going to say anything, even though Professor Snape and Healer Lyndell would probably want him to, but what he’s _thinking_ is, _I’m not rejoicing in someone else’s death, I’m just happy that I’m safe!_

Theo is the one who speaks up, his voice as smooth as the butter the house-elves put on the Slytherin table. “Of course you wouldn’t want someone to rejoice in a death, Headmaster. But Greyback was someone who tortured and terrorized countless people. I know that Harry won’t be the only one who’s happy to hear that he’s dead.”

Dumbledore shakes his head slowly. “Is it worth that happiness to have committed murder at age fourteen, Harry? Is it worth it to know that you may face Azkaban and have your dragon taken away?”

“You wanted me to commit murder at age _seventeen,_ or whenever you actually thought I’d be ready to face Voldemort!” Harry yells, and Dumbledore stares at him in utter surprise. “You always meant me to face him! If I wasn’t going to fall dead, then I’d have to kill him, right? Don’t pretend it’s going to be some peaceful resolution when he’ll never stop hunting me!”

Dumbledore fumbles for his glasses, looking as flummoxed as Harry has ever seen him. “I—that is to say, a death in battle is very different from a death by dragonfire—”

Harry just glares at him some more and doesn’t say anything. He would yell a lot worse things if he did.

“This is a very disturbing death,” Dumbledore finally whispers, and he looks weary, as if he was the one who got controlled by Greyback and made to run out of the school. “I never imagined—if I had had any idea that your dragon was mature enough to breathe fire like that—”

“She shouldn’t be,” says Charlie’s brisk voice behind them, and Harry wants to sag in relief even though he knows that Charlie just being here doesn’t mean Chaos is out of trouble. “Can I talk to her, Harry?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” Harry says, and looks down at Chaos. She sits up on her haunches and stirs her wings. So far, she hasn’t managed anything like flight, but Charlie says that’s not unusual and he shouldn’t worry.

Chaos glances back and forth between him and Charlie. Her consideration presses like a wall against Harry’s mind for a moment. Then she lowers her head and walks slowly forwards, her tail swishing behind her.

“Thank you, Chaos.” Charlie bows to both of them, although Harry wants to tell him to keep it for the dragon, and then he kneels down in front of her. His hands run gently along Chaos’s ribs, then the webs of her wings. They halt on her throat. Charlies frowns.

Dumbledore is about to say something, but Harry _hates_ that frown, and he blurts out, “What is it? Has something changed?”

Charlie turns Chaos’s head, although she continues to glare him straight in the eye even as he manipulates her face around. “She has glands here that are usually found in much older dragonets, Harry. They release the kind of magic that makes her breath hot enough to kill instead of just threaten someone. Most of the time, dragonets don’t need to breathe like that because their mother kills their food for them. In fact, it would be better for them _not_ to breathe like this at their clutchmates, because they’d kill them.”

“So what happened? What is—is she going to be okay?”

Professor Snape puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry tries his best to calm down. He must sound really worried if _that’s_ happening.

“I think that it probably happened because she feels that you’re under threat,” Charlie says quietly, dropping his hands away from Chaos’s throat. Chaos promptly steps back towards Harry, moving with her neck craned back to keep one furious golden eye on Dumbledore. “She recognizes your differences from a dragon, even as she considers you her mother, and she feels that she needs to protect you. So the flame manifested early.”

“She is dangerous. She needs to be removed from the school grounds.”

Charlie actually turns to Dumbledore and _laughs_. “Go ahead and try it, Headmaster. If you think you can, then you’ll have invented a method Dragon-Keepers all over the world will want to learn.”

“It ought to be easy enough, with a dragon so small.”

Charlies shakes his head. “There’s a reason that it’s impossible to remove dragonets from their mother, most of the time. She’s bonded to them, the way Harry is bonded to Chaos. You can’t remove her without removing him.”

Harry lifts his head proudly when Dumbledore looks at him. He thinks that he knows what’s coming next, just like he knew what Dumbledore would say about Greyback’s death. He wonders fleetingly for a second if he’s becoming more political.

He wants to chortle when he thinks of that—because there are some people who would _hate_ it—but he keeps quiet.

“I must ask that you allow me to ban Chaos, Harry. That you release the bond.”

“Why, though?” Harry counters. “She was defending me. I don’t know exactly what Greyback intended to do, but he obviously wasn’t about to invite me to Fortescue’s for an ice.”

Several muffled snickers sound behind him. Dumbledore’s eyes narrow a little. Harry wonders for a second why the joke offends him so much, but then he knows. Dumbledore won’t want to lose prestige in anyone’s eyes, even if those people are just some students who have way too much of a habit of following Harry around.

 _Yeah, I_ am _becoming political._

“It is still murder,” Dumbledore says, heavy and thick as a thundercloud. “Do you know what happens when you murder someone, Harry?”

“Someone dies.”

“If you _will_ be serious, Mr. Potter. It means that you have split your soul. Voldemort’s soul is partially as tattered as it is because he has committed so many murders of innocents.” Dumbledore stares directly at Harry when he says that, in a way that Harry doesn’t really understand.

Harry only shrugs, though. “Technically, sir, Chaos murdered him, and not me. And I don’t think you can blame her any more than you could blame one of Hagrid’s hippogriffs for defending him. She’s an animal. She doesn’t understand the same rules and morals that humans do.”

“She certainly doesn’t,” Charlie mutters.

“But you must see how dangerous she is to the student population, then, Harry. What happens if she takes it into her head to murder someone else?”

“Tell the other students not to threaten me, and she really shouldn’t need to do that, though, sir.”

Dumbledore’s eyes linger on Harry’s face for a moment. “I don’t think it’s fair to ask the students not to make _any_ threatening moves, however. There are some who will have understandable phobias of werewolves. There are others who might simply joke about hexing you, and your dragon will react.”

“She hasn’t so far,” Harry says. “This was really different, sir. And if you expel her, then you have to expel me, too, just like Charlie says.”

“You could release the bond, Mr. Potter.”

“You mean—orphan her? But that would be really _cruel_ , sir.”

Harry feels as though someone has punched him. Isn’t that basically what happened to him? And maybe what Dumbledore is suggesting is like leaving Harry on the Dursleys’ doorstep. Harry reaches over and curls his hand around the back of Chaos’s neck, soothing the rumble that was pouring up her throat.

“No, sorry, sir. I can’t do that. _I would never abandon you,_ ” he adds to Chaos in Parseltongue, just because he thinks the sound of the hissing might reassure her.

Chaos rears up on her haunches, and Harry tenses. But it’s only to nuzzle him, not to unleash a stream of fire at someone else. Harry bends down and hugs her shakily. It’s finally hitting him, the sheer shock of seeing Greyback die. He hopes that none of his other friends were close enough behind him to actually see it.

“We will be speaking of this further, Mr. Potter.”

“If you think that’s best,” Harry says, and utterly ignores the disapproving look Dumbledore gives him, in favor of marching back towards the school with Chaos next to him. He honestly doesn’t care what happens to Greyback’s body, although he thinks maybe they’re going to call the Aurors and he’ll probably have to testify. Right now, he just wants to sit down and try to absorb what happened.

It occurs to him that most of the people who were by the lake are following him instead of Dumbledore, but that’s another consequence that he’ll think about in the morning.

*

Severus wonders if it is possible to at once blaze with pride in his ward and want to wrap him in a mobile Shield Charm for the rest of his life.

Harry handled that with far more emotion and grace than the repressed anger and simmering exhaustion he’s been showing for the past fortnight. He replied in a way that asserted where he stood but also couldn’t be mistaken for a threat (although Severus knows Albus will try his best to spin it that way). He is free of the control that Greyback was apparently able to wield through the scars—something Severus _will_ be investigating—and he has the support of a Dragon-Keeper in maintaining his bond with his dragonet.

And Severus is not blind, although he thinks that Albus might be, right now, in his disgust over the way Greyback died. Granger, Nott, and Zabini might be the ones that spoke up, but they are not the only ones bound up in what happened. The others watched Harry. They are following him now. They visibly, if not vocally, chose him over Albus.

Severus is seeing the beginnings of a force that might truly be able to set Hogwarts free of Albus’s stranglehold.

And it is a magnificent thing to witness.


	27. Heartbroken

“Fenrir Greyback is _dead_?”

Remus’s face is streaked with the weary lines that he always gets after spending an evening transformed; it’s not just tiredness and it’s not dust, but Sirius has never figured out exactly why he looks so different. He reaches out and plucks the paper from Sirius’s fingers, staring at the picture on the front.

Sirius admires that picture. Someone snapped an image of Greyback’s burned corpse in such a way that it isn’t too graphic and the _Prophet_ would publish it, but not so vague that you don’t know what happened.

_It was Harry’s dragon. I know it was._

Of course, that _does_ beg the question of why they had to find out from the paper and not Harry himself. But Sirius dismisses that suspicion. Harry was probably too much in shock yesterday to write to them. Either that or too caught up in a party in Gryffindor.

Oh, wait, no. He’s in Slytherin. Sirius frowns. He hopes there aren’t too many people in Slytherin who want Voldemort, and Greyback, to win, and that they’ll leave Harry alone.

He looks up to see Remus slump down over the paper. He looks devastated. Sirius stands up in alarm. “Moony, what is it? Are there—I mean, is it because you weren’t the one to take him down?”

“It’s because he got into Hogwarts grounds, Sirius! He could have done anything to Harry—probably would have if that little dragon wasn’t there.” Remus’s voice is choked, and he doesn’t take his eyes away from the slight wisps of steam drifting up from Greyback’s body in the picture. “How in the _world_ am I supposed to be happy knowing no one prevented this?”

Sirius actually did manage to overlook that, and he’s not proud of the fact. He winces a little, but manages to rally. “Everything’s okay, Remus. That little dragon _was_ there, and she saved Harry. So we’re going to take him out to Diagon Alley to make it up to him, right? Over the Christmas holidays? I know he has to stay for the Yule Ball, but there’s no reason he can’t come home afterwards.”

“Snape might have something to say about that.” Remus is still staring at the picture. “Why didn’t Dumbledore put up protections against werewolves?”

“You know that he still wanted you to be able to get onto the grounds and visit Harry, Moony.”

“He also knew Fenrir Greyback had _scarred_ Harry. Why is me being able to visit him worth more than Harry’s safety from him?”

Sirius opens his mouth and then doesn’t know what to say. He is suspicious of Dumbledore now, he doesn’t like the way that he talks about Harry and Chaos, but he doesn’t really believe that Dumbledore wants Harry _dead_. “Maybe he never thought Greyback would get onto the grounds,” he finally says, and knows it’s weak even before Remus gives him an impatient, golden-eyed glance.

“Yes, of course he thought that. But he could have put the protections up anyway.”

Sirius hesitates. Then he says, “Dumbledore takes precautions, you know? But I think he’s so much an optimist that he doesn’t really believe the worse could happen until it _does_ happen.”

Remus thinks through that, his fingers tapping in a drumroll on the table. Sirius watches him in fascination. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Remus act like this, especially so decisive right after a full moon right.

“Yes, you could be right about that,” Remus mutters. “He certainly never thought anything could go wrong with Pettigrew betraying James and Lily until it did.” He sits up. “Well, you need to tell him as Harry’s guardian that you want the protections lifted.”

“I’ll need Sniv—Snape’s agreement with me.”

Remus looks straight at him, his eyebrows rising. Strangely, Sirius wants to glance aside. “And do you really think he’s going to _disagree_ with you about something that would keep Harry safer?”

Sirius fusses with his hair for a minute. Then he sighs and shakes his head. “Especially if he can use this to lord things over me.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that he’ll have bigger concerns. And of course we should invite Harry here, but we should send him letters first, telling him how happy we are that Chaos defended him and Greyback is dead.”

“And to figure out what Dumbledore is going to do next,” Sirius says, looking at the picture. There’s a glimpse of spangled robe in the corner of it, even though the photographer didn’t really want to take a picture of the Headmaster.

For some reason, Sirius is sure that Dumbledore is standing in a way that indicates tension, as much as he can tell that from the corner of a robe.

Sirius doesn’t like it.

*

Albus puts his head in his hands and sits there for a long time. Fawkes is singing softly on his perch in the corner, and he’s already flown over twice and settled on Albus’s shoulder, nestling his head gently against Albus’s cheek. It hasn’t managed to comfort Albus. He wants to weep.

He _never_ wanted Harry to know the pain of murder, the shame of committing an act so terrible. He intended to help Harry with Voldemort’s demise or, if it really came down to the two of them and no one else, he would have had Harry sacrifice himself. Albus is sure that Tom would have used the Killing Curse. It’s horrible as all death is, but it’s painless.

Harry will suffer more from the death of Greyback than he would have if he had died at Voldemort’s hand. What nightmares will he wake from to the image of Greyback roasting in dragonfire? When will he begin to realize that standing by and letting someone else kill a person still taints you with guilt?

Albus was only a few years older than Harry when he realized that for himself—with Gellert and Ariana. Even now, guilt scores its claws down his soul. He hasn’t torn it with murder, but there are other wounds that strike as deep. Truthfully, he only spoke about Harry tearing his soul with murder because to speak otherwise would have meant revealing a piece of his past. Albus has no right to do that, not when it would disturb Ariana’s rest.

Fawkes lands on his shoulder and croons again. Albus reaches up and runs his hand through the soft feathers. Fawkes’s song finally begins to soothe the edge of the ragged wound that has been torn open again.

“There’s not much I can do to remove the dragon from him,” he murmurs to his phoenix. “And perhaps that was the wrong impulse in the first place. But I _have_ to remind him of the costs of committing such an act.”

Fawkes begins to sing again, softly, sadly. Albus allows the noise to run in the background of his mind while he plans.

*

“Wanted to apologize.”

Harry stares in silent blankness at Goyle. He doesn’t want the other boy anywhere near him, really, and neither does Chaos, if the anxious way she shifts at his side is any indication. But Goyle looks like he wants to really talk, which is unusual enough that Harry just folds his arms. “Fine. For what?”

He’s aware of people spilling into the corridor behind him, and not just people on their way to breakfast in the Great Hall. He and Goyle aren’t taking up _that_ much room. Some of them are his “followers.”

Harry hates that word. He can accept the reality, but he hates that word.

Goyle clears his throat. “You can’t be as dirty as I thought if you go around killing werewolves.”

Harry wants to bang his head against something. If nothing else, that particular set of words shows how ignorant Goyle is of current political realities, and the fact that Greyback was actually allied to Voldemort.

“Fine, thanks,” he says, and Goyle nods like he’s pleased and goes on to breakfast himself, running as if he thinks all the food is going to be gone. Harry ignores the staring eyes and walks in the same general direction.

That lasts until he gets into the Great Hall and there’s a sudden rush of whispers around him, everyone hissing as if they’re the ones who speak Parseltongue. Harry comes to a stop between one step and another, his eyes narrowed. Gazes and gapes follow him.

And someone at the Ravenclaw table stands up and asks, “How does it feel to be a murderer, Potter?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry says, holding a pair of black eyes in a face he doesn’t know. Someone who couldn’t be bothered to be sympathetic last year when supposedly an insane Death Eater was after him, or in second year when he was rejected for being the Heir of Slytherin. “Tell you what, though, when I’ve killed Voldemort the way you all want me to, I’ll come back and tell you.”

That makes another rush of whispers cross the Hall, when he says Voldemort’s name. Harry turns his back on them all in utter disdain and walks on to the Slytherin table. More than one person catches his eye there and smiles.

These aren’t people who usually support him, either. Maybe they’re like Goyle and just find it thrilling that he killed a werewolf. Or Chaos killed a werewolf. She’s swaggering along by his side, her wings cocked at a jaunty angle, though Harry’s come to accept that most people aren’t as good at interpreting draconic body language as he is.

“Let me get that for you, Potter.”

Harry stares as a Slytherin fifth-year girl leans across the table and fetches the plate of small sandwiches he was reaching for. He catches Theo’s eye and nods. Theo promptly casts a charm that detects hexes on the food.

“What are you—” The girl is rapidly turning a rainbow of colors. “I was trying to be nice!

“Where you never were before,” Theo says, in a bored tone that Harry wishes he could imitate. He nods to Harry in turn, and Harry picks up a sandwich and puts it on his plate. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know how this works, Eremina.”

“It’s different now!”

“Why, though? Is it because you _know_ Chaos could burn you to death now instead of just suspecting it?” Harry asks.

Eremina, whatever her last name is, promptly turns pale and squeezes down away from him on the bench. “She could do that?” she breathes in what sounds like fascinated horror.

“Of course she could. If she would do it to one person who attacked me, she could do it to another one,” Harry says, with a stare, and then he turns back to filling his plate with food.

The Slytherin table seems to half-hover around him, the air buzzing with questions they aren’t brave enough to ask. Harry keeps eating as steadily as he can, ignoring them. Chaos is curled up under the bench, and now and then she radiates smugness at him.

It’s a different reception than Harry thought he would get. He just expected horror or maybe people hailing him as a hero again. They have a depressing tendency to think of him that way.

But if it’s like this…

Maybe he can live with this.

*

 _“We were displeased to hear that you had almost died._ ”

Harry scowls at Lyassa. She’s usually not the Speaker who comes when he has a lesson, but she’s here this time, and she’s assumed her completely serpentine form, that of an enormous green snake who glows like the leaves of the Forbidden Forest in sunlight. Harry would enjoy the color more if not for the scolding he’s getting. “ _You have no idea what Greyback would have done with me. He might just have taken me to Voldemort._ ”

“ _Just_.” Lyassa emphasizes the word with a contemptuous snap of her tongue. “ _But he would have killed you in the end. You must be more careful._ ”

Harry rolls his eyes. “ _He was reaching through the scars on the day of the full moon to bring me to him! I didn’t even know he could do that. What was I supposed to do, cast a Greyback-Detecting Charm every morning the second I woke up?_ ”

“ _Depend on your snakes._ ” Lyassa jerks her head at Lion, who is fluttering around the classroom near some high windows that look out over the Quidditch pitch. It makes Harry think a little wistfully of flying himself, but if he did that, the Slytherins would never leave him alone until he got on their team next year. “ _Lion and the others you have conjured._ ”

Harry blinks. “ _I don’t have any other permanent ones. I send them back into nothingness at the end of each lesson._ ”

“ _You do not have a network of snakes watching and helping you_?”

“ _No. Why did you think I did_?”

Lyassa doesn’t answer him. She turns away and begins hissing furiously to a green point of light in the air, something like the one that probably brought her here. Harry leans against the wall and just watches. He’s not sure what she wants him to say. Having a network of snakes could be useful, but it’s not something the Speakers have ever helped him with, either.

The green point flares, and then Asheren tumbles through, in his serpentine form. He converses with Lyassa in a low, buzzing voice that Harry can’t hear for a few moments, and he’s sure the inaudible nature of it is on purpose. Then he turns to Harry with a stern bob of his head. “ _We must begin defending you._ ”

“ _Chaos did a good job,_ ” Harry says. Chaos doesn’t really understand Parseltongue, but she’s learned to recognize her name in both languages Harry speaks. Her tail twitches a little in her sleep.

“ _She is not as good as a network of serpents._ ”

Chaos opens one eye and regards the Speakers. They don’t seem impressed.

“I don’t really need them,” Harry says, in English, the way he always does when he wants the Speakers to know he’s serious. “I’d rather know about other things instead, like how Greyback was able to control me.”

Lyassa settles back on her coils like a dog sitting on its haunches, and Harry thinks she might actually be ignoring him. Asheren is the one who answers. “ _Someone who is scarred by a werewolf but not changed into one can be controlled by that werewolf. However, it’s rare. Most of the time, werewolves just bite humans and make them into copies of themselves. And the scars have to be given in a precise location._ ”

Harry licks his lips. “ _Let me guess. The face is one of those locations._ ”

Asheren bobs his head, while Lyassa arches off to the side as if she wants to look at Chaos from literally a different angle. “ _And preferably threatening the mouth or the eye, the way yours did._ ”

Harry reaches up to touch the scars, then forces his hand down. Professor Snape insists that the potions are making a difference and reducing how inflamed they look, although Harry isn’t sure. “ _All right. Um. But now that Greyback is dead, is there anything I have to fear from the scars_?”

“ _Nothing more than the flares of temper and craving of raw meat that you have already been dealing with._ ”

 _“You do need a network of serpents, no matter how powerful your dragonet is,_ ” Lyassa announces, leaning in so that she can study him again. She seems to be satisfied with whatever she was hoping to see from Chaos. “ _We will begin by testing your ability to conjure some of them. You have not been practicing that enough lately, anyway._ ”

Harry sighs, but from the sound of it, the Speakers aren’t about to let him out of these lessons. He draws his wand.

But he does wonder, as he begins casting, whether Greyback always intended to control him through the scars, and why he waited until a few months _after_ he scarred Harry to try and control him.

*

Lucius falls to one knee as he bows his head before his Lord. “What do you require of me, my lord?” he asks, and his voice is calm and deferential. Just because Voldemort looks disgusting at the moment does not mean that he will always inhabit this degraded form. And in any case, Lucius is wiser than some of his fellow Death Eaters. He will not show his emotions.

“Greyback is dead.”

“Yes, my lord,” Lucius says, because the Dark Lord seems to expect some sort of answer. “I saw it in the papers.”

The Dark Lord makes a sharp, screeching noise that Lucius only realizes a second later is his teeth grinding together. “You will make the necessary arrangements, Lucius,” he says, standing and moving an arm that ends with sickle-shaped claws forwards. Lucius holds still, and his faith is rewarded; the arm continues past him instead of touching him. “Greyback entered Potter in the Tournament. We need his blood.”

“Yes, my lord. Do you want me to bring him to you?”

“ _No_. We need his blood on a certain evening at a certain place and a certain alignment of the stars, Lucius.” The Dark Lord’s teeth snap again for a moment, making sparks fall. “I will want you to arrange that.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I will want you to contact your son and tell him that _he_ must arrange it.”

Lucius does not move his shoulders or go taut, because he does not allow himself to. This is a simple matter of control, after all. “Yes, my lord. May I ask why?”

The Dark Lord leans towards him. His face is almost shapeless, drifting and dripping in currents of blood and rotting muscle, but Lucius ignores that. After all, this is only a testimony to the Dark Lord’s power, that he can survive in such a form. And he will not look like this forever. He will rise again.

Narcissa _must_ come to believe that.

“There are rumors that your son is friends with the Potter boy. That he _follows_ him.”

“He has made such mistakes, yes, my lord. Thank you for giving me the chance to win him free of the influence. I know that you might have asked me to slaughter Draco for his insolence.”

Unexpectedly, the Dark Lord laughs, and pulls back. “I am not foolish enough to require such a show of loyalty from you, Lucius,” he croaks, and waves one hand in a way that makes Lucius suck in a sharp breath. But the claws still slide past his face instead of cutting him. “I have learned from the first war. I will not ask of my followers things they cannot give. Your son has the chance to redeem himself.”

“Yes, my lord.” Lucius bows with his face to the ground before he is told to go and begin fetching the first of the Muggles that the Dark Lord will need for his new body.

As he leaves, Lucius can only marvel that none of the other Death Eaters have joined him. They are capable of figuring out where the Dark Lord is and seeing the rewards that will follow in his train. Where is Avery? Where is Macnair? Where is _Tarquinius?_ Lucius never would have mistaken that man’s caution for a lack of ambition.

Ah, well. Lucius will be the one to prove his loyalty, and the one to have the rewards all to himself.

And Draco—who must chafe at the fact that he is not even the most _favored_ of Potter’s followers—will have his own, too.


	28. The Yule Ball

“Draco? Are you all right? Only you’ve been looking at the letter for most of the night.”

Draco shakes his head and tucks away the letter from his father that arrived earlier that day. He also manages to muster a smile. “My father sent me some upsetting news. Malfoy investments,” he adds, when Harry starts to stand up as if he’s going to cross the distance in between their chairs. “I mean, we can probably get the lost money back, but…”

He trails off. That’s not what the letter is about at all, but Harry is the last person he can confess that to.

Harry studies him for a second, then nods. “Then I hope things work out,” he says. He twitches an arm, and Lion flies to his shoulder and Chaos leaps to her feet from where she was napping next to the chair. Draco wonders if he sees the other ripples that run around the rest of the common room, the way that other Slytherins would be happy to leap their feet and follow him, too.

He probably doesn’t. And both his obliviousness and the ripple are part of Draco’s problem.

“Why do you hope things work out, though?” Draco tries to ask, tries to aim for a haughty tone that might mask what he’s really feeling and not alert any spies his father has in the common room. “I mean, you don’t care about money that much.”

“I care when my friends are upset, though. Are you _sure_ that you’re all right, Draco?”

“Yeah. I—sorry for saying that, Harry. I suppose I’m still not used to having friends.”

Harry smiles at him and then makes his way up the stairs towards the bedrooms. Chaos thumps after him, her tail swishing behind her. Draco stares after them and wonders how in the world his father would expect him to overcome someone with his own _dragon_ , never mind all the other advantages Harry has.

If Draco was going to betray Harry, of course. Which he’s not going to do.

“Hey, Draco.”

Draco turns his head, and finds himself flinching heavily when he sees the glint of a knife. It’s in Theo’s hand, and it’s not coming for him—yet. But part of him goes as silent and still as he would if his father was in the room to hear what he was saying to Harry.

“You shouldn’t,” Theo murmurs, “count on being able to betray him. Or maybe I should say, you shouldn’t count on being able to do it and then enjoy your reward.”

“I _wasn’t_ plotting to betray him,” Draco snaps. His heart is beating far too fast, like a rabbit who’s seen an eagle, and he hates that someone else his own age can make him feel that way. His father is frightening, the Dark Lord is frightening, Draco _shouldn’t_ be afraid of Theo. “I just meant that—”

“Really?” Theo turns the knife around, looking at it for a moment, before he tucks it away in his sleeve. “Harry is kind. I think he would forgive someone who turned on him. He’s managed to ignore the fact that my father hasn’t offered him any genuine support in months. But he was furious when he heard about the ways my father has threatened me.”

Draco’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He knew that Father was wary around Tarquinius Nott (Father would never admit to being actually frightened of another Death Eater) long before the Dark Lord fell. Draco sees shadows in Theo’s eyes that he doesn’t want to confront.

Unexpectedly, Blaise comes to his rescue. “Harry wouldn’t forgive you for hurting Draco, either,” he says mildly without looking up from his Arithmancy book. “Come on, Theo, you know better than this.”

Theo hesitates for a long moment. “But if he does something else that gets in the way, then he’ll know I’m waiting,” he says, and stands up and walks after Harry and Chaos to the bedroom.

Draco closes his eyes and asks a question, because Blaise is the only one close enough to hear him. “Why is Theo like that?”

“Well, you know some of the rumors.” Blaise’s voice is still calm. “I think Theo’s mind is sort of damaged.”

“I didn’t mean _that_ part of it.”

Blaise is silent. Draco opens his eyes to find Blaise staring at him with his lips parted a little.

“You really _don’t understand_ what it means to Theo to suddenly have a friend who accepts him completely?” Blaise asks. “I mean, I thought you did mostly because _you_ have a friend who’s the same way. But if you don’t…then I suppose you might really be stupid enough to betray Harry, and no matter what happens, I’d join Theo in defending him.” Blaise shakes his head and goes back to his book.

Draco sits back and bites his tongue. He wants to say that it’s hard and Blaise doesn’t understand, because his mother isn’t a Death Eater.

But bringing up hard childhoods and difficult relationships with parents around Blaise isn’t something you do. Draco stares into the flames and wishes he did know what to do.

*

Harry smiles at Luna. He’s wearing the dress robes that Snape insisted he purchase this summer. Harry made absolutely no attempt to alter them, even though he’s grown a bit and so the robes dangle a little above his ankles now, and he doesn’t really like the green color. But he _doesn’t care._ It wasn’t his idea to participate in this stupid Yule Ball, so people can deal with what they get.

“You look great, Luna.”

Luna smiles up at him. She has silver earrings on, although one is a crescent moon and one is a four-pointed star. Around her neck is a huge silver chain with more star and moon charms on it and one that Harry thinks is a miniature sun. Her robe is blue and covered with more silver star embroidery.

"I'm dressed as what I want to be like," Luna says, and extends her arms and spins around a little. Her robe floats behind her. Harry supposes it's pretty. Honestly, to him she just looks like Luna. The smile on her face is the best part of the outfit. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Oh, because I don't care."

Luna nods as if that part is perfectly understandable, and then reaches out and loops her arm through his. "Shall we go in to the Yule Ball? I don't understand why everyone is walking so slowly."

"I think we have to go down and wait by the doors of the Great Hall. They want us to begin the first dance or something."

"Really? But it's terribly bad luck to be first at something all the time! It attracts the attention of the Laughing Siddoos."

Harry smiles down at her as he twitches his trailing robe away from Chaos's jaws. She's fascinated and wants to gnaw on them for some reason. Harry will just do what he can to keep them free. "I don't think everyone here will be first all the time. Not all of us came first in the First Task, after all."

"That's true." Luna appears to give it deep consideration as they come to a stop before the doors of the Great Hall.

Harry glances around. It seems that Cedric is escorting Cho, and Fleur Delacour has someone Harry recognizes as the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain on her arm. Viktor and--Hermione?--are there, too. Harry grins at her, and Hermione, after hesitating for a moment as if she thinks he's going to be upset or something, grins back.

Professor McGonagall comes out to give them hurried instructions about the dance. Harry doesn't listen. He's looking at the other Champions and noticing the stares they give Luna and her robes, and Chaos. He wants to roll his eyes. Why did they think he was going to act "normal" when he didn't do that in the First Task, either?

"Are you worried about the dance?" he does think to ask Luna.

"No. It's just walking around the floor slightly faster, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and sternly ignores the flutter of nervousness in his stomach as the doors open. "That's all it is."

People _are_ staring at them as they parade in, but honestly, that's normal enough for Harry by now that he manages to ignore it and hold out his hand to Luna. She grasps it, and they surge into the opening steps of the dance.

It becomes obvious quickly that perhaps Harry should have taken those dance lessons. But once again, he hardens his spine and makes his steps as careful as he can and his face as blank as he can. He is _not_ going to care.

Besides, Luna hasn't had the lessons, either, and she's grinning at him as they twirl and stumble around the floor. Harry relaxes as he smiles back. This was never going to be perfect. At least he isn't stepping on his partner's feet and making it painful for her.

"Where did you learn to dance?" Fleur Delacour says to him out of the corner of her mouth as she spins around an enthralled Roger Davies, her nose wrinkled.

"The same place you learned to speak English," Harry says. She snaps her mouth shut and turns away in offense.

Chaos at least agrees to sit on the sidelines until the one dance they're supposed to do has passed. Then Harry comes over to pet her and lead her to a table where the elves have arranged some thick, raw slabs of horse and venison. Chaos starts bolting them, and Luna gives Harry a little curtsey and asks, "Do you mind if I dance with other people?"

"Of course not! It's not like this is a formal date."

Luna smiles at him and drifts away. Harry watches her for a second, but then gets distracted by the way that Professor McGonagall is trying to keep the twins from putting something in the drinks. Right now, she's doing pretty well, but he's sure the twins will manage to run circles around her in a minute or two.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

"No." Harry shuffles over so that Ron can sit down. He has a sour look on his face and he looks deliberately away from Parvati, who is dancing right now with some Slytherin sixth-year boy whose name Harry can't remember.

"Trouble in paradise?"

"Oh, shut up, mate," Ron says, staring gloomily at the glass of butterbeer in his hand. "Luna and Hermione are the only sensible girls here. I asked Parvati to go because she said she wanted to and didn't have anyone to date, but once we got here, she got upset that I _wasn't_ jealous of the looks she was getting from that bloke. So we probably won't dance at all."

"Sorry," Harry says, patting Ron's arm. Inside, he's immensely relieved. He avoided all that shit by going with Luna. He doesn't understand Parvati, or Lavender, who's Parvati's best friend. He's a bit surprised that Ron wanted to bring Parvati as a date, but then, Ron probably didn't want to show up by himself, either.

"Would you like to dance, Ron?"

Luna has floated back up to them, after a dance that Harry didn't see at all, and is holding out her hand. Ron blinks, then grins and puts his butterbeer down. "You don't mind, mate?" he asks, over his shoulder.

"I don't own her," Harry replies, which makes Ron blush a little for some reason before he goes off to dance with Luna.

"Are you having fun, Harry?" That's Theo, gliding up behind him as silent as a shadow.

"Apparently not as much fun as some other people want me to have," Harry answers as he notices Professor McGonagall looking at him. He gives her a jaunty wave, which makes her snort and turn away, but he's pretty sure it's to hide a smile.

"Lovegood came with you? Oh, yes, she's over there with Weasley."

"You know, it's weird that you call people by their last names when they've been part of our study group almost as long as there's been a study group."

"I only call friends by their first names." Theo relaxes onto the bench next to him, narrowing his eyes at something across the room. Harry looks and finds Draco standing by himself, his face pale. The dark robes he's wearing make him look even worse, and Harry wonders idly why Draco chose them.

"Is it Draco or Malfoy right now?"

Harry doesn't know what makes him ask that, but he knows his instincts are right when Theo's eyes come back to him. "It's very much Malfoy until he makes his mind up."

Harry sighs. He had a dream the other night where he's pretty sure he saw Lucius Malfoy killing a deer for Voldemort. "You know, he might make his mind up more easily if he has support for his choices."

"He can get that from you or Blaise. Not me."

"Why are you acting as though it's inevitable that he's going to betray us?" Harry demands. He doesn't like the way Theo seems to be jumping to conclusions.

Theo snorts a little. "Because I have no idea how strong Malfoy is. Following you indicates strength. The way he acted the first few years at Hogwarts indicates weakness. I don't know which way he'll jump. I don't like being uncertain."

Harry pauses. "There are a lot of people who would say the strength and weakness should be the other way around."

"Not me." Theo drapes his hands over his knees, eyes tracking Draco's movements. "Malfoy was a terrible leader. Insecure and constantly pushing people to acknowledge and respond to him, and he wouldn't take any attempt to stand aside from the conflict as just neutrality. I have the feeling you would."

Harry closes his eyes. Honestly, he can already feel a headache coming on. "I would take the standing aside as just someone who hasn't decided which side they're on yet. But if they choose against me and for Voldemort, then I would say something."

"That makes you the kind of leader I require. Malfoy isn't it."

Harry picks up Ron's abandoned butterbeer. "Please stop making me deal with politics."

Theo chuckles, but he leaves. When Harry opens his eyes again, there's someone sitting next to him that he honestly doesn't recognize at first, and her silver-trimmed dress robes aren't responsible for that. He just hasn't paid her a lot of attention in months.

Then she looks at him, and he makes out the shape of her chin. "Edgecombe, right," he says flatly. He doesn't care what Cho says; Edgecombe never apologized for bullying Luna in a way that made sense. She made half-hearted noises at one point, she sort of drifted along the edge of their group probably because Cho was in it, but she disappeared just before Harry would have demanded a real apology.

Edgecombe breathes out slowly. "I know that Cho told you why I have a difficult situation in Ravenclaw, Potter."

"You're a half-blood and you have a dark sense of humor. None of that needs to make you a bully."

Edgecombe fiddles with a silver ring on her finger. "You don't know what it's like."

"I don't know what being a _half-blood_ is like. Right."

"You don't know what it's like to have half your House despise you on sight!"

Harry makes a slight motion with his hand. It encompasses Chaos sleeping beside him and the Slytherin crest on his robes, which he wore after thinking about it for a bit and deciding he should. "Right."

Edgecombe flushes deeply enough that Harry thinks she'll get up and storm away. Frankly, he wants that. He doesn't care about Edgecombe's blood status, he could accept dark humor if she expressed it in a way other than bullying, but on the other hand, she's acting like Lavender, demanding consideration and respect while not offering any herself.

Instead, Edgecombe lets go of the ring and turns to him. "I'm starting to think that the really powerful people in the school are the ones who follow you."

"I don't know about that. Other people could learn that kind of magic if they tried."

"I didn't mean--I meant that the really _politically_ powerful people are the ones who follow you."

Harry shrugs and gives her a thin, insincere smile. "I don't know about that, either."

Edgecombe makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. "You don't know a lot, if you're posing as their leader."

"I know enough. If you apologize properly and don't bully anyone any more, then you can join the group. But I don't think you will."

"Not bully _Loony_? You have no idea how tempting--" Edgecombe cuts herself off, maybe because she can see from his face that Harry isn't about to respond to it. " _Fine_. I have no idea what your _problem_ is, but _fine_." She stands up and stalks away.

Harry shakes his head at her back. It crosses his mind to wonder if she was doing something sinister, but he doesn't think so. She is like Lavender, and she doesn't really want to admit she's wrong or do anything that would make her uncomfortable. She thought she could get away with a non-apology, and gave up when she found out she couldn't.

"Do you want to dance, Harry?"

Harry grins at Hermione, who's holding out her hand, and stands up. "If you don't mind getting your toes stepped on."

"It can't be that bad," Hermione says, a blasé attitude that only lasts until the first time Harry swirls her against the music and steps on her toes.

Harry laughs, and ignores the way that Edgecombe scowls at him from across the room. He really doesn't know what's going on, but he's beginning to think that it doesn't matter any more than people staring at him for wearing short robes and sitting out most of the dances does. She'll apologize or she won't; she'll change her mind or she won't.

For now, he intends to enjoy himself.


	29. The White Phoenix

Narcissa steps out of the separate room off their bedroom where Lucius keeps his more expensive robes. He thought he could keep his many Apparitions and his recent activities a secret from her, but he didn't count on her intelligence.

It is deeply unflattering, when Narcissa thinks about it. He believes that she notices nothing, that she has been influenced by the potions he has tried to slip into her food. That she is asleep when his left arm twitches and he abruptly excuses himself from conversation. That she is a bad mother.

Of them all, it is the last assumption that is the most insulting. That she would value her husband above her son. That she would allow Lucius to sell Draco to the Dark Lord.

Narcissa has found the proof that she needed, the one that will matter if she has to provide Pensieve memories to the Aurors. Interrupted conversations and potions that she neutralized before they even touched her lips were not enough.

She has found Lucius's Death Eater robes, his white mask, his silver gloves, hanging in a place of prominence.

Narcissa has a hard-edged smile on her mouth as she descends the stairs and makes her way towards the kitchens. In part, the potions in her food have been so easy for her to identify because she has cultivated an excellent relationship with the Malfoy house-elves. It's time to call on that relationship again, as well as the elves' limited knowledge of the many potions wizards can brew.

And Lucius nearly never checks his food.

*

"I'm sorry that I can't invite you to Christmas at the Manor this year. Mother and Father have expressed a desire for privacy."

Harry sighs as he watches Draco stand there with averted eyes and voice almost stammering, his hands clenched in front of him. In some ways, he thinks, he's lucky. Even when Sirius and Snape hated each other more than they do now, they never put him in a position like this.

"That's fine," Harry says quietly. "If you need help from me, then you only have to ask me for it, you know? I wanted to remind you of that."

"Who says I need help?"

Harry rolls his eyes and then waves his wand and Summons the gift he got Draco from their bedroom. "If I don't see you at the Manor this year, then I don't know when I'll see you, so here. Happy Christmas."

Draco still opens the gift as fast as he always has, which makes Harry smile a little. Some things will probably never change about Draco. That he likes gifts is one of those things. He holds up the folded chain that was inside the box with a little puzzlement.

"What is this? I mean--thank you, Harry, it's generous. But I don't really understand what I should do with a silver chain that's too long for me to just wear as an ornament."

Harry notices more than one Slytherin trying to listen in, especially the ones he thinks might have Dark Marks, and raises Privacy Charms with a turn of his wrist. He's getting better and better at wandless magic, knowing it might save his life someday. Chaos snorts at his feet when she feels the spell, but luckily doesn't breathe out any flames.

"It disrupts any spell or enchantment when you swing it in a circle or put it in a ring around an object," Harry tells him quietly. "See, you can unclasp it at the end here? Then you can put it back together in a circle. It won't detect potions, but it will get rid of curses and hexes. Just about any curses and hexes, Sirius said."

"This is a Black artifact?"

"No, a Potter one. Sirius said that my grandparents used it all the time, but when they died, my dad wasn't worried about enchantments on objects or anything he'd need to take the time to swing the chain at, so he put it away in the Potter vault. That's where I got it. And I reckon that's a warning I need to give you. You can't really use it in battle. It takes too much time to swing or get out. But you can still use it to protect yourself."

Draco gapes at him then. Some of the other Slytherins are craning their necks to look at the chain from beyond the Privacy Charm and nodding as if they recognize it, but Harry doubts that. They're just taking in Draco's reaction.

"You can't give me an artifact that belongs to your _family_!"

"Why not?"

"I--because I couldn't give you an artifact that belongs to the Malfoys without my father's permission! Which we both know that he's never going to give."

Draco is flushing brightly now. It's the first time he's really referred to what Mr. Malfoy is doing. Harry sighs a little. "You don't have to worry about giving me the exact same gift, Draco. Just keep being my friend."

Draco gathers up the chain again, folding it into the small silken package Harry had it in. "I can't believe that my friendship matters that much to you."

"You wanted to be my lieutenant, and you can say that?" Harry teases. But Draco's face is pale, so Harry sighs again and uses the serious answer. "I didn't have any friends before I came to Hogwarts, Draco. Of course it matters."

"You're not _serious_."

"Yeah, I am. My cousin kept anyone from really wanting to be friends with me." Harry shrugs when he sees Draco's eyes and nostrils getting all narrow. Nowadays, he doesn't want any revenge on Dudley. He just doesn't ever want to see him again, either. "Happy Christmas, Draco."

Draco nods and mutters and runs off to their bedroom. Harry's not surprised. He just did something that must have been startling. He reaches down and rubs behind Chaos's eyeridges, and she finally does close her eyes and go back to sleep.

"I wanted to give you my gift before we left to visit home, as well. I don't believe it would be a good idea for you to see my father this year."

Harry sits up. "Thanks, Theo. Are you sure _you_ should be going?"

Theo smiles a little. "My father has someone he wants me to meet. I assume it's my new stepmother. He's very eager to see me again, and I have to admit." He smiles more widely. Harry can see why he makes people flinch from him, even if Harry never will. "I feel much the same way."

"Don't let him catch you taking your revenge." Theo stepped within the range of the Privacy Charm when he came near Harry. Harry doesn't have any qualms saying that, although he also knows that nothing he can say is going to discourage Theo from taking it.

"Oh, I won't. And anyway." Theo shakes and rattles the package a little as he holds it out. "This is heavy. Take it, would you?"

Harry accepts it, almost expecting another chain like the one he gave Draco, because of the clinking and how heavy it is. Instead, he uncovers a pile of books that have chains wrapped around them, so thickly that he can't even read the titles. He gives Theo a blank stare.

"Happy Christmas," says Theo, unperturbed. He holds out a piece of parchment that is folded in on itself. "These are some books from the Nott library. They have to be chained whenever they're transferred from one owner to another, though, because they'll try to eat the new one. This parchment is instructions on how to make them get used to you."

" _Theo_. For fuck's sake--"

"I know. It's not as much as I wanted to give you, but this was sort of short notice. The house-elves barely managed to smuggle out the books from the library without Father questioning them."

"I didn't mean that!" Harry wants to bury his head in his hands and groan, but that would be a bit too obvious to the eager eyes still watching from beyond the Privacy Charm. He sighs instead. "You didn't _need_ to get me this."

"You didn't need to give me your secrets either. Or be my friend." Theo gives him a bright innocent look. "I'll still see you at the party Professor Snape is organizing on the thirty-first, though."

Harry nods. For some reason, Professor Snape really wants the party to take place on the last day of the year. He doesn't know why. But he doesn't need to ask, either. "All right. Be careful at home, Theo."

Theo dips his head in what Harry _really_ hopes is a shallow nod and not a shallow bow. "I will. Good-bye, Harry."

Harry gives him a weak smile and Banishes the books upstairs. He's going to have to look at them and the instructions to make them more friendly to him _very_ carefully. Professor Snape might not let them into the house otherwise.

*

Narcissa smiles as she watches a slight glaze appear in Lucius's eyes. The potion the house-elves introduced into the food is one that builds up slowly instead of affecting someone at once. It's reached the appropriate levels now.

Which means that Narcissa can begin to take her revenge.

"I am worried about something you mentioned concerning the Dark Lord, darling," she begins, after blowing across her tea as if to cool it. In reality, the gentle motion removes the steam that was obscuring her view of Lucius's face. "Would you mind explaining it to me again? I'm sorry for not understanding the first time."

"That's because you're a woman, Narcissa."

 _It is working._ Normally, Lucius would never be so careless as to dismiss a witch solely on the score of her gender.

Narcissa nods as if she only wants to grasp this. "You said that he only marks his Inner Circle, his most faithful servants. Would that mean that he intends to mark Draco or not? Our son hasn't proved himself in the Dark Lord's service, yet."

Lucius chuckles and reaches across the table to pat her hand. "Oh, my dear. You don't need to worry about that. The Dark Lord will mark Draco the instant he gets a body back, if I ask him to. It's more about the boon done for me, since I'm already a member of the Inner Circle, than anything Draco will do."

Narcissa smiles and changes the subject, letting the conversation wash away from Lucius's memory. She goes back to her own sitting room after breakfast, both enraged and ready to kill, and watches her face in the mirror as she brushes her hair.

The simple statement told her many things. Lucius thinks that he is in control of the relationship with the Dark Lord, rather than the other way around. He is more condescending to her at the deepest levels of his mind than Narcissa ever realized.

And he intends to sacrifice Draco to that monster's service.

Questioned honestly, Narcissa would say that she shares more opinions with Severus Snape than any other person--at least, Severus Snape as he was before assuming Harry Potter's guardianship. She prefers to stand aside from politics. She fights only to defend those who matter to her. She does not like to be condescended to. She respects true power wherever it appears, one of the reasons that she has never approved of her husband's decision to stand so openly in opposition to Albus Dumbledore.

But now the Dark Lord has reached a hand towards her _child_.

Narcissa smiles into the mirror and arranges her hair with the brush again. Then she stands and walks into the bedroom that she has shared with her husband for so long.

There are some things that must change before they share it again. If Narcissa must burn like a phoenix to ensure that, she will.

*

"Welcome home, pup!"

Harry grins as Sirius lifts him into the air, oofing and huffing dramatically. It won't be long before he can't do that anymore. Harry is growing pretty fast, which is a relief considering how small he's been for so long.

(He knows that Professor Snape is slipping potions of some sort into his food. Harry is pretending he doesn't notice the taste, and Professor Snape isn't confronting him about it or telling him he has to eat certain things. So everything is fine).

Remus is smiling behind Sirius, but as well as hugging Harry, he lets his hand linger for a second on the scars on Harry's face. "And you haven't had any more problems because of these?"

Harry flushes and shakes his head, still a little ashamed that he let Greyback control him through his scars. He looked it up afterwards and found out that was something that could happen, but it shouldn't have been a problem for someone who _is_ strong-willed. "No. Sometimes they itch a bit near the full moon and I still like eating raw meat, but nothing more than that."

Remus is watching him somberly when he looks up again. "It wasn't your fault, Harry. No one's fault but Greyback's."

"Are you upset that you didn't get to get revenge on him?" Harry asks quietly. He looks over his shoulder and watches Chaos bouncing up and down near the Floo. She always gets exhilarated when they travel by fire.

"No. I'm just relieved that he's dead."

"But?"

"What do you mean, but?"

Harry narrows his eyes at Remus. "I know that tone of voice. You were about to say something else. Or you were thinking of something else."

Sirius chortles and punches Remus on the shoulder. "He caught you, Moony. You might as well tell him what you're thinking about."

Remus rolls his eyes, but faces Harry. "I still want to take revenge on the people who made it happen. With Greyback dead, Voldemort must have someone who's serving him on a regular basis. I want to make that person pay. And I want to make Voldemort pay."

Harry hesitates for a long second. He could tell Remus that he sees Lucius Malfoy in his dreams. He could.

And then Remus would probably rush out and try his best to make Lucius pay, and Harry would have problems with Draco, and _Draco_ would have problems. Maybe it would even affect Mrs. Malfoy, who Harry isn't close to, but--she's not horrible.

"Do you know something, Harry? Maybe one of the Slytherins you're in the common room with regularly said something?"

Sirius is watching him. Harry looks back up and swallows and says, "I don't want people to take revenge when it would mean other people get hurt."

"You don't want the people who hurt you to _pay_?" Remus's eyes flash something between gold and amber when he says that.

"Not if it means that other people pay, too. People who are innocent and had nothing to do with Greyback's attack on me."

Remus and Sirius exchange long, baffled glances. Harry watches them in miserable silence. He wanted this to be happy, and instead everything is getting all tangled-up and complicated again.

"I don't really understand what you're saying," Sirius finally mutters. "I mean, sure, okay, yeah, there might be people who are innocent bystanders when we attack Voldemort, wherever he is, but we wouldn't hurt them unless they fought to protect Voldemort. Who else are you talking about?"

"People who like the person you would hurt. People who would be upset that they were hurt."

Remus abruptly blushes. Sirius exchanges a glance with him, and blushes, too. Remus says, "Sound similar to something Lily said to us once?"

Sirius sighs. "Yeah. And if we can make the effort to get along with _him_ , then we can make the effort not to hurt other people."

Remus pats Harry's shoulder. "All right, Harry. We won't just charge ahead and do something to this person. But I'm still going to be searching for clues, and if I find them, then I'm going to do my level best to get the Aurors to arrest this person."

Harry swallows and nods. He can't object to that, not when Lucius should probably have been arrested anyway after the first war. And he's making choices that are _stupid_ , and he would probably hurt Harry's friends if he got the chance. Someone should arrest him.

But Harry doesn't want Remus's hands to be the ones that tear Lucius's face open, or Sirius's wand to be the one that casts the spell that makes Draco an orphan.

"Awww, pup. I hate to see you looking like that." Sirius sweeps Harry up in his arms again and discreetly casts a Lightening Charm, so he can carry him out of the room. "Come with us. I want your first night home to be full of food and gifts. I'm going to give you a gift every time you laugh..."

"You're not going to leave anything for Christmas morning, Sirius!"

"It's less than twenty-four hours before then, who cares?"

Harry sighs a little and tries to let his worries go as he relaxes between Remus and Sirius. He's going to see Professor Snape tomorrow, when he goes over to his house. Everything is going to be fine.

At the same time, he thinks it won't be if he doesn't worry.

*

"Hello, Theodore. This is your new stepmother, Lindanora Nott."

"I'm thrilled to meet you, Theodore," the witch standing at his father's side says, and extends her hand. She has brown hair with hints of gold to it, but she could look like a stone troll for all Theo cares and he would still hate her for using the name that only his mother can use.

Theo shakes the hand anyway, because so far, she's following his father's lead in irritating him. He won't do something else unless she begins to personally irritate him.

At the very least, he will give her a gentler death than his father merits.

"So sorry that we didn't invite you to the wedding, son, but it was private and--rather rushed." Tarquinius lets one hand rest briefly on Lindanora's belly.

Theo inclines his head gravely. In truth, the potions he's feeding his father mean Lindanora's womb will never hold a child, but that seems to be something Tarqunius hasn't grasped. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, you'll have to tell me how to go on! I don't know how to deal with a stepson just ten years younger than I am!"

 _Well, since she brought it up..._ Theo smiles at her. "I'm sure you'll do fine. My father's wives have a record of doing fine with me."

"That's enough, Theo," Tarquinius says, voice just short of a snarl. "To your room, now."

Theo tilts his head a little in pretended respect and walks up the stairs. When he's in his room, he locks the door with a complicated charm Harry taught them and shakes his head. Honestly, unless Lindanora or his father do something much worse, this is only a distraction. Theo's real work lies outside these walls.

With one vengeance proceeding on schedule behind him, nothing will prevent him from planning for another.


	30. Gifts and Surprises

“How are you progressing in the task I gave you, Draco?”

For a moment, the ribbon that Draco is using to wrap the gift for his mother slips from his nerveless fingers. Then he turns around and manages to nod to his father. “So far, Potter doesn’t suspect a thing.”

“Good.” Father gives him a narrow smile as he shuts the door to Draco’s bedroom behind him. Draco used to be thrilled when Father did that. It meant they were going to talk privately, man-to-man. Now he wants to open a hole in the floor and drop himself down it. “You understand why I gave you that task?”

“It’s an important part of serving the Dark Lord.” But Draco’s voice wavers and a questioning tone creeps into it despite himself, because he’s really not sure.

Father senses that, and his mouth tightens before he sighs. “Yes.” He takes the chair in front of Draco’s vanity. “You must understand, son, that when true power arises, one serves that power before anything else.”

Draco blinks. That contradicts some lessons Father gave him in the past. “Even before the interests of the family?”

“The Malfoy family _will_ be served by rising with that power. You have no idea how great it is.” Father’s eyes blaze. Draco has never seen him look like that before. “How great he will be, again. And I will stand at his side.”

“His most important Death Eater, Father?”

“Could it be otherwise?” Father laughs softly. “The combination of my blood, and my own power, and my loyalty, mean that. And do you see, Draco, that you will inherit my position when the time comes?”

_What I thought was inheriting was leadership. You used to tell me that Malfoys bow to no one._

Draco only says, “But would the Dark Lord really grant me that position just for being your son, Father? Wouldn’t I have to do something to earn it?”

“Of course you would, but you would be more likely to inherit it anyway, simply because there is no other Death Eater who can match us. The Dark Lord was only _temporarily_ defeated, Draco. He will rise again. And he has entrusted me with a secret that no one else knows. I will have your oath that it does not leave this room.”

“Of course, Father. I so swear,” Draco whispers. He wonders if he needs to get out his wand, if Father intends for them to perform an Unbreakable Vow.

But Father apparently only needs the smallest kind of promise, because he leans forwards, and his voice becomes lower and hoarse and excited. “He has told me that he is _immortal_. He cannot be defeated. When he regains a body, then he can continue on as if he had never been defeated.”

“Immortal,” Draco whispers, and prays that his father mistakes the shivers running through him for delight and wonder. “But—he didn’t tell you how? Are you sure that he will _remain_ immortal?”

“You almost sound as if you doubt our Lord, Draco. “

“Of course not, Father! I am only thinking of the tales I read as a child, where immortal wizards would hide their hearts in a secret cave, and when the cave was uncovered or collapsed on the heart—”

Father laughs. “This is not a fairy tale, Draco, and our Lord is considerably stronger than you are giving him credit for. He would not be defeated so easily.”

“Of course,” Draco murmurs. He shivers again. He wonders if he will make it out of this room, if Father will let him take the news back to his friends. And then he wonders why he is thinking so intensely about betraying his family. He should be thinking about _serving_ them, surely, and so serving the Dark Lord.

He should be.

But he cannot bring himself to do so.

“This is the moment when we _know_ that we have made the right decision, and that some of our ancestors were wrong,” Father continues, which makes Draco feel a little shock right under his heart. Father used to tell him that all of their ancestors wanted to protect the Malfoy family and that all of them were right. “They sometimes wondered how best to promote themselves, or served a Dark Lord they believed would be the final one who would reign over the wizarding world for centuries. Now we _have_ the Dark Lord who will reign into the future.”

Draco has never seen Father like this. It frightens him more than a little. But he gets through the rest of the interview by pretending to be interested and excited, and Father finally leaves him without making Draco actually swear the kind of oath that would mean he couldn’t tell anyone.

Draco collapses on his bed and stares out the window. There are grey clouds outside sifting down a little snow.

There are no answers there.

When someone knocks on his door again, Draco says, “Come in,” in a hoarse voice. He’s sure that it’s Father, coming back to actually make him swear that oath. In a way, it’s a relief. Draco won’t have to decide what to do if he _can’t_ tell the truth to anyone else.

But it’s Mother who steps in and watches him intently for a moment before she draws her wand. Draco stares at her when he recognizes the motions she’s making as she casts a wordless spell. It’s one of the privacy wards that Harry made them learn in their study group.

“Now,” Mother says, and sits down in front of Draco. “What oath did your father make you swear?’

“He made me promise not to tell anyone what we discussed,” Draco whispers. His breathing is so fast that his head is spinning. “He didn’t actually make me swear a vow.”

Mother nods. “Good. Then we can make our own oath, and I can show you the amulet I’ve made that will prevent your father from Portkeying or Apparating you anywhere you don’t want to go, and alert me if you’re in danger.”

“I—what?”

“I’ve decided that your father’s intentions are dangerous and I’m not going to follow them. And neither are you.”

*

“Happy Christmas, Harry!”

Harry’s lost count of all the people who have said that to him today. But, other than his worries about Theo and Draco, it really does feel that way. Ron and Ginny and all the rest of the Weasleys are here, and Hermione, and even Blaise, who Harry didn’t think would get to come to Sirius’s house. Professor Snape stands in the corner with his arms folded. Harry doesn’t really expect any presents from him today. That’s going to wait for the mysterious party that Professor Snape wants to have on the thirty-first.

So far, Harry’s had a great day. There’s a huge fire in the hearth, and roasted chestnuts, and so many different kinds of pudding that Harry can’t even take a single bite of them all before he’s full. Hermione got him an incredible book on war tactics, and Harry’s wearing his latest Weasley jumper, which has a pocket where Lion can curl up and another one where he can keep treats for Chaos. Charlie’s there, especially to present a huge hunk of raw meat to Harry’s dragon.

Hermione, meanwhile, is deep in the set of Muggle books Harry found for her about perceptions of magic throughout the ages, and Ron is beaming over his own Quaffle. Blaise has already thanked Harry for the variant chessgame that is supposed to teach the person who plays it both better tactics and to notice small movements that another person might make, and is sprawled on the floor, intently watching the pieces move. Harry is currently eyeing the quills that Fred and George got him, which are self-inking. Useful, but then, with the twins, one never knows what _else_ the quills are about to do.

“Happy Christmas, pup.”

Harry blinks at the wrapped potions flask that Remus is holding out to him. Near the wall, Professor Snape is standing upright, his eyes narrowed and his wand in his hand. “What? I thought the Defense books you got me earlier were the presents.”

“Who says that we can’t give you more than one gift?” Sirius asks. He’s grinning, almost hopping from foot to foot. “Besides, the last one was from both of us, and this is from Remus by himself.”

Professor Snape looks thunderous, but Harry isn’t about to ask him for permission to open his own bloody gifts. He takes a deep breath and unwraps the gold ribbon and then the red paper.

Inside is a flask that has a potion so thick and clear in it that Harry thinks it’s quartz at first. Only when he almost turns the flask upside-down does the potion suddenly shine and push against the cork. “It looks wonderful, but what does it do?” Harry wonders.

Remus gives him a sympathetic smile. “This is a potion that was invented before Wolfsbane was. It doesn’t ease the transformation, which is why they still had to invent Wolfsbane to have a real impact on lycanthropy. But it does make a werewolf less anxious and bloodthirsty when drunk.”

Harry relaxes. He can see why Remus thinks that might help with the agitation that he experiences near the full moons.

Or even just the agitation that he experiences on a daily basis. “Thanks, Remus.”

Remus hugs him, and then Snape comes over to take the flask away and examine the potion. Harry rolls his eyes a little, but lets him. It’s not as though he’ll ever let Harry take the potion until he does, anyway.

“How are you recovering from it, dear?”

Harry blinks and turns to Mrs. Weasley, who is hovering over him with another plate of biscuits. She immediately gives him the plate, and Harry picks out chocolate ones for himself and Chaos. Charlie said they were so small that they wouldn’t hurt her or interfere with her diet. “Fine? I mean, the scars don’t really hurt now.”

“No, dear, I mean, how are you recovering from killing Greyback?”

Harry is startled by the glares that Mrs. Weasley gets from all over the room. “I’m fine,” he says firmly. “I mean, it was Chaos that killed him. I wish he’d never been there and made me leave the school.”

“But it’s still a death.” Mrs. Weasley’s voice is low and warm, and she’s looking at Harry in so much worry that Harry thinks, _She probably looks like that when someone falls off a broom._ “You’re all right? No nightmares?”

Harry sighs with weariness. _Is this another one of those things where she’ll think I’m horrible if I admit that it doesn’t bother me all that much_? “Nightmares sometimes. Not really about that, though.”

Mrs. Weasley sniffles a little and pats his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re okay, dear. To think, that a nasty werewolf was allowed onto the grounds!” She catches Remus’s eye. “Nothing against you, of course, Remus.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Molly.”

Harry sits back on the couch and does what he can to blend into the furniture. Sirius ruffles his hair and Snape hands him his potions flask back and nods. “That potion is safe to drink with any amount of food or water,” he murmurs.

“D’you really think that we’d give him an _unsafe_ potion, Snape?”

“Not deliberately,” Snape says, meeting Sirius’s eyes without flinching or changing the tone of his voice. He moves over to the wall again. Mrs. Weasley kept trying to get him to sit down earlier, but Harry isn’t really surprised that he won’t do it in Sirius’s house. That would be too much of a friendly gesture for them.

An owl abruptly comes winging through the window, making Harry blink and sit up. He sent some gifts to his other friends yesterday and received a few from them, too, but he didn’t think he’d get an owl today. Most people with families are probably busy with them, after all.

But then he recognizes the bird’s white-streaked black feathers, and snorts a little. _Daphne did say that she would send me the draft of her oath the minute she finished it._ He lets the owl land on his shoulder, where Lion hisses at it from his jumper pocket.

The parchment the owl carries is the oath itself, which Harry looks over carefully, shifting the letter pointedly to the side when Sirius tries to read over his shoulder. Sirius takes it in good part, thankfully, just ruffling his hair again and going off to the kitchen again.

_For the term of a year and a day, I swear that I shall put Harry Potter’s interests before my own, that I shall stay loyal to him and all those working in his interests, and that I shall not harm him or those loyal to him save in defense of my own life._

Harry wonders for a moment why it took Daphne this long to write one simple sentence, but then he looks more closely at the oath and smiles a little. It’s not just the self-defense clause at the end. It’s also the fact that she doesn’t say _who_ gets to define things like “Harry Potter’s interests.” That means she gets to. So she can act against someone who might believe that they’re doing something for his own good, but which she doesn’t think is.

It might include an adult.

Harry turns the oath over and writes, _This is acceptable. We’ll swear it the first day we’re back at school._ The owl snatches the parchment in its beak and soars out the window again.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’re writing to that cute little Ravenclaw you took to the Yule Ball?” Sirius is back again, with a glass of butterbeer that he hands to Harry.

Harry takes it and sips it, shaking his head. “Luna is out of the country with her father right now. Looking for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, I think.”

“What?”

Harry laughs and tries to explain about the way that Luna and her father think of the world, and the rest of the party passes less uncomfortably, even when Chaos _does_ eat some candles and then sets the carpet on fire.

*

Daphne sighs and tucks Harry’s message into the deepest part of her trunk. At least she knows now that she and Astoria are going to have protection from one side of the war and with the boy that Daphne increasingly thinks is going to end up winning the whole thing.

A rap comes on the door. From the rapid sound of it, Daphne knows it isn’t Astoria. She promptly touches the corner of her trunk, and activates the illusion spell that makes it an uninteresting cabinet.

“Come in, please.”

Her mother enters the room, her face pale and strange. She’s holding a letter in one hand. Daphne looks at it politely, even though her heart has started pounding faster than the knocking on her door.

“You will be transferring to Beauxbatons for the next school year.”

Daphne keeps herself from reacting except to frown a little. “Will we do all right if we enter in the middle of a term, Mother? There’s also the fact that my French isn’t the best, and Astoria barely speaks it.”

Mother looks up at last, away from the letter that seems to be commanding so much of her attention. “Oh. No, I didn’t mean that you will be going to Beauxbatons in January. In the autumn.”

Daphne nods, feeling a vast, silent relief move over her like an invisible waterfall. Not that she intends to transfer to Beauxbatons no matter what, but at least this gives her more time to work with. “May I ask why, Mother?”

“We have received word of the true extent of the Dark Lord’s power,” Mother says in a hushed voice. “It is too late for you to disassociate yourself completely from Harry Potter, but if we move you out of the country, the Dark Lord may forego taking revenge on you in favor of more pressing concerns.”

“I had not realized that the Dark Lord had grown so powerful.”

“You will do as you are _told_ , Daphne.”

“Of course, Mother.” Daphne stores the fact in her mind that her mother took a simple question as evidence of disobedience. She will have to watch out for that, and for Astoria, who can’t really control her emotions as yet. But she also manages to turn a little to the side, as if acquiescing to what her mother said, and catch a glimpse of the seal on the letter.

_Malfoy._

Daphne bows her head and waits until her mother is gone from the room. Then she curls her lip.

Draco probably has nothing to do with this. It’s likely his father, putting pressure on the Greengrasses to recruit for the Dark Lord.

But Daphne doesn’t care. She _will_ claim her place. She _will_ bring her sister with her, and she will walk away from their parents if they are going to be so weak as to allow fear to dictate their decisions.

And she intends to start living by the terms of her oath even before she swears it.

She goes to write a letter warning Harry of Malfoy’s move in the war, and to bribe a house-elf to carry the message. Clearly her owl is too distinctive.


End file.
